


Give and It Shall Be Given Unto You

by kaiz



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-25
Updated: 2004-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-07 04:21:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 33,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/61374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaiz/pseuds/kaiz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Surprises are foolish things. The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give and It Shall Be Given Unto You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



"Surprises are foolish things.  
The pleasure is not enhanced, and the inconvenience is often considerable." 

_Emma_, by Jane Austen, 1816

1.

The first Summons comes, predictably, at the most inopportune of moments. Precisely when you are adding 6 grains--not a single grain more or less--of powdered dragon's blood to a volatile, experimental version of the Wolfsbane.

Rather than pain--He eschews such blunt, inelegant methods--the Summons distracts you with a pulse of warmth. The heat radiates from the Mark at the nape of your neck and trails down your spine like a gentle, teasing caress.

Damn Him!

Sweat beads on your brow and your hand shakes a bit, but thankfully, only 6 grains tip into the cauldron from the vial. Afterwards, you grit your teeth until the Summons has faded, then return to your work.

A permanent reversal of the lycanthropic curse is near to hand! Surely He can wait.

With the arrival of the second Summons, the flare of sensuality and promise is more pronounced. It curls round your tailbone, delves between your arse cheeks, and laps insistently at the underside of your balls. Your guiche vibrates and you immediately become erect.

Startled, you drop the ladle into the potion with a splash.

The three assistants quietly working on the other side of the room look up in surprise.

You ignore them, fish the ladle out with a hook, and set about mitigating the damage done with a series of hoarsely chanted incantations and a brisk, counter-clockwise stirring of the potion for exactly three minutes.

There is no third Summons.

Instead, a snowy owl swoops through the open door and alights on the shelf above your cauldron. She stares down at you reproachfully.

Thus defeated, you set aside the ladle and open your hand to receive the note she holds in her claw.

> _S--_
> 
> You know I would not disturb your work unless the matter was urgent. This is. Go see to our guest.
> 
> Bring him to me afterwards.
> 
> \--H

You take two long, shuddering breaths and struggle not to crush the parchment in your fist.

After all that has gone before: the lies and seductions. The Unforgivables. The burnt flesh, the broken bones. The screams, the shattering of your voice. Being forced to watch, being tied face-down and--no!

You have no desire to see this 'guest,' especially not alone, and He knows it.

But in this, what you want does not matter: what He wants, He gets, one way or another. Most likely, He has His reasons.

With shaking hands, you set aside the ladle, cast a stasis spell over the potion, and pen a brief reply that says simply:

> _As you wish._

Hedwig departs and you do what you can to prepare: clearing your mind, centering and shielding yourself, locking away the memories--the stench of piss and shit and fear, the echo of your screams round the bleak stone chamber, His own howls of pain and rage. Like any predator, Lucius has a talent for sensing weakness; you refuse to present him with any.

Predator, prey, ah! That gives you pause.

This time it is _Lucius_ who is chained and caged. Though his teeth and claws might still draw a bit of blood, you have a fine set all your own. And here, now, you have the absolute freedom to use them, should you choose.

How very inconvenient for your dear, former friend and ally Lucius Malfoy that you had the foresight, cunning, and luck to choose the winning side.

You suppress the urge to bare your teeth.

The Mark at your nape tingles with impatience as if to say, _Enough delay!_

Quickly, you spell your clothing clean and shake your hair free of its clasp. It falls past your waist now and is streaked with grey. A right nuisance in the laboratory, but elsewhere, in the bedroom, for instance...your lips twitch at the thought.

Your assistants are still watching you, surreptitiously. But with the firming of your lips and a slight narrowing of your eyes they return to their work. This lot is well-trained; you need say nothing.

All is as it should be.

With a flick of your wand, you quench the fire beneath your cauldron, don your over-robe, then stalk towards the door. On the way, you pause, distracted by a flash of black and flesh; the mirror over the sink as it reflects your image. Ascetic, now, rather than raw-boned, gawky, and ill-favoured. Perhaps even distinguished, refined. The wizard you once were has been fully transmuted, through a gruesome trial of blood--one that stripped you of self, of sanity, of all but your fierce will to survive--and the single, unanticipated act of mercy, that reforged you into this surprising new being, a founding member of this New Order.

As always, it surprises you that you like what you see.

Thus armoured, you continue to the door and exit the sanctuary of your laboratory in a swirl of black cloth. A slight tilt of your head and your two bodyguards leave their post outside the door and fall in step at your heels.

That your work was interrupted--and for Malfoy, of all people!--still rankles. But rather than nurse the irritation, you decide to focus on the potential this meeting may hold.

"Where to, Professor?" Bulstrode asks.

"The dungeons," you rasp out, slanting Zabini a glance.

"Malfoy," he hisses, clenching his wand tightly enough that his knuckles whiten.

Bulstrode is openly hopeful. "You'll give us a crack at him, won't you, sir?"

"Hm," you say, finally finding a reason to smile outright. While the meeting is unlikely to be pleasant, without a doubt it will be interesting, and quite possibly...amusing.

Together, the three of you wend your way through the holly and fir-bedecked corridors--Merlin-be-damned holidays!--towards the lower levels of the estate, into the dungeons.

To properly greet your 'guest.'

###

The journey takes a while.

Your laboratory does not have a Floo and is in a separate building. Thus, you must first make your way along the snowy path, past the cemetery and War Memorial Stones, and finally, up the broad rear stairs to the main house.

The house itself is large, spacious, and teeming with wizards and witches, all of whom are brimming over with too much holiday cheer. Several of them impede your progress, wishing to have "just a moment!" of your valuable time: employees, friends, selected members of the press. Wizards and witches seeking funding, with sheafs of proposals ready-to-hand. The inevitable Ministry spies. Assorted hangers-on who hope that some of Potter's 'greatness' will rub off if they loiter long enough.

Potter allows them all. "I have nothing to hide," he maintains. "We are a legitimate research organisation."

A claim that is technically accurate, if incomplete.

There is an orphanage on the grounds, a primary school, a refuge for a menagerie of otherwise hunted or reviled magical creatures--overseen by Rubeus Hagrid--and of course, the 'dungeon.'

There is the fact that many of Potter's 'research interests'--such as your inquiry into the lycanthropic curse--are 'alarming' to stuffy Ministry bureaucrats. Not to mention that some of Potter's personal habits are considered a bit...unseemly within polite wizarding society. A young man his age should be married by now, at the very least, settled, with several children at best.

But then, Potter is a law unto himself, in the way that all immensely powerful wizards and witches are. And unlike Fudge, Minister Shacklebolt is no fool. He _knows_ Potter, knows far more about Potter's history than the official, sanitised stories tell. He has witnessed the rise of one Dark Lord and thus, was _sincerely motivated_ to reach an accommodation with The Man Who Destroyed the Dark Lord.

As long as Potter pays his taxes, donates to good causes, keeps the children in his care happy, educated, and well-fed, keeps the beasts from eating too many visitors per year...and keeps his more _unsavoury_ activities out of public view, the Ministry will not concern itself overmuch with the precise content of Potter's research. Or with the various Ministry statutes that he might be circumventing on his private property.

Wizarding society has taken its cue from the Ministry. Hero Potter, Saviour of the Wizarding World, is an okay bloke. Good looking, athletic, likes Quidditch, is discreetly philanthropic, distressingly reclusive--at least according to the pages of Witch Weekly--and a bit on the eccentric side (what with having been raised by Muggles and all, poor boy). But then, isn't that true of so many powerful wizards? Just look at Nicholas Flamel and Albus Dumbledore, for a start.

###

Eventually, you reach your destination (without either hexing or snarling at anyone too important) and enter a private and warded section of the estate. Through an innocuous doorway, down a narrow corridor, an old staircase, and then the three of you have arrived.

The estate doesn't have a true dungeon. Instead, it has a large, converted root cellar: stone walls, a slate floor, and several storage rooms off a large, central chamber.

Three sentries are playing cards at a table near the hearth. One young wizard is standing, wand unsheathed and arms crossed beside one of the storeroom doors. Nearby, Mad-Eye Moody--who is still not dead yet, such a pity--is teaching defensive spells to a pint-sized witch with the hard, wary look of a war-orphan.

They all look up at your arrival.

"Snape," Moody says, pausing from his instruction and stumping over. The set of his mouth makes it obvious that he is none too pleased that you are not dead yet either. "Here to see Malfoy, I take it?"

You see no need to state the obvious. Also, encountering Moody without flinching requires nearly as much energy as it does to confront Lucius. Fortunately, the nightmares that feature Moody are older and far more threadbare.

Moody scowls at your non-reply then jerks his head towards the wizard guarding the storeroom; the young man moves aside.

"Wait here," you instruct Bulstrode and Zabini. They are not pleased but obey without comment.

One breath, then two, and your hand is on the bronze doorknob.

You pause, recalling the odd twists of fate that brought you to this door.

Four breaths, then five and you choke down the bile, lock away the memories, and step inside.

2.

Your presence at this doorway is the terminus of a complex sequence of events that began long before Potter had become _Him._

A sequence that began with a single, innocuous phrase:

"I want you to do something for me."

The memorial service for Black had come and gone--good riddance!--and shortly before his sixteenth birthday, Potter had been moved into 12 Grimmauld Place.

Moody and Lupin's threats aside, Potter's guardians were less than accommodating of their nephew's volatile emotional state. During one week alone, there'd been eight separate instances of Potter manifesting 'accidental' magic, each with increasingly menacing results.

For once, Dumbledore took the hint. Lily's blood protection be damned, Potter was moved into Black's former house, under lock and key with round the clock 'companions.'

He accosted you one evening in the parlour, after a meeting of the Order.

He boldly gripped your sleeve and said, "Snape. I want you to do something for me."

You jerked away, incredulous. "Do something, for you? For the idiot who refused to learn what I had to teach. Who violated my privacy. Who naively bought into the Dark Lord's lie. Who dragged his friends to the Ministry, thus endangering their lives and getting his bastard of a godfather killed. Why on earth would I do _anything_ for a self-centred, foolish little twit like you, Potter?"

"Because," he said, his eyes gone flat and hard. "Because you _owe James._ You owe my father your life, Snape, and now you owe me. If you ever want to be free of that debt, you'll do what I want."

"Will I?" you sneered.

"Yes," he said, "you will." Then he thrust a thick tome into your hands.

It was very old. Leather-bound, filled with brittle yellowed pages, and weighty with Dark energies. Its rusty iron locks had very clearly been blasted open.

It quivered on your palms expectantly; sweat broke out on your brow.

"Open it," he demanded.

Your nerves thrummed with the force of his command; reluctantly, you complied.

And nearly swallowed your tongue upon scanning the bookmarked page. Dumbledore should have known better than to allow a barely sane, grief-wracked adolescent wizard to roam freely in a house filled with Dark magic.

"No, Potter," you said, holding your voice steady with effort.

"Yes, Snape," he countered, grabbing the front of your robes. "_Yes._"

"No. This is insane. Even if this were possible...even if Black _can_ be retrieved, he might not come back the same...s-sane...this spell is...it is almost certain suicide. I will not do it."

"Oh no?" he said, eyes narrowed and his voice went deadly quiet. "I think you will. You _will_ do it, Snape. Otherwise, _I'll do it myself._"

His words rang into the silence. You stared down at him, gauging the depth of his resolve from the shadows beneath his eyes, the trembling of his hands where they fisted in your robes, and the set of his jaw.

Oh, yes, Potter meant it. Every single lunatic word.

He'd break into the Ministry, rip open the portal, and do battle with the savage, malevolent spirits beyond the Veil just to reclaim his blasted godfather.

And powerful and determined though he was, he lacked experience; he would die in the attempt. The Dark Lord would triumph. All your work, the blood on your hands, every sacrifice, all would be for naught.

"Even Remus says that no one knows the Dark Arts better than you. If anyone can do it, _you_ can, Snape," Potter continued, with a calculating look. "Besides. If you bring him back, then he'll owe a life debt to _you,_ won't he?"

As if Potter's flattery was worth more than a brass Galleon.

As if Black's owing you anything mattered one whit in the grand scheme of things.

###

Four weeks later, on the night of the new moon, you were--quite surprisingly--not dead (although it had been a near thing) and Black had emerged from the Veil.

His reunion with Potter and Lupin was tearful. Tender and touching even, if one liked that sort of sentimental rot.

"How did you escape?" everyone asked Black; he claimed not to know.

But someone else of significance _did_ know. Or at least suspect.

While Black and Potter were having their reunion, Dumbledore turned his troubled gaze upon you. No doubt a whiff of Dark magic still clung to your robes, if not your very soul.

He tried to get you alone for weeks afterwards, to catch you unawares, to pry loose your secrets. But your years as a spy stood you in good stead, as did your skill as an Occlumens. Dumbledore was not nearly so powerful a Legilimens as Voldemort.

Over the next few weeks, given that Black appeared to be little more than the garden variety idiot he'd been _ante_-Veil and given that Potter's emotional state was vastly improved, Dumbledore let matters be.

Potter, however, did not.

He came to your office late one evening, shortly after school had begun. The space in your doorway rippled and the invisibility cloak slipped from his shoulders to pool on the floor at his feet. He stalked across the room and leaned on your desk, upsetting a stack of essays.

"Get out."

He ignored you. "Teach me," he replied. "Teach me everything I need to know."

You raised an eyebrow. "Why should I?"

"Otherwise," he said evenly, "I will go looking for Voldemort. Right now."

You set your quill aside and leaned back in your chair. "That threat has worn thin, Potter."

He said nothing, merely stared down at you. The events of the past year had marked him, burning away his youth and his recklessness, leaving behind a man, not a child. A man who now understood the stakes in this war.

Did you dare hope that this time things might be different?

"Monday and Wednesday evenings at 9PM," you said after a long pause. "Wear your cloak. And do not be late."

Something like hope flashed in his eyes.

"And Potter, I have a few conditions."

His eyes narrowed.

"Several Slytherin students of my choosing will be joining your private D.A. tutorials. And you will show me the proper respect, calling me either 'sir' or 'Professor Snape'. Is that clear?"

He did not look pleased but he nodded slowly anyway. "Anything else...sir?" he said with a touch of his old insolence.

"No," you said as he turned to go. "But I warn you. You will practice. Every night. You will do as I say. You will _not_ waste my time."

"I won't. I swear it," he promised, then donned his cloak and was gone.

True to his word, he did not disappoint you.

If he had, things might have gone far more badly than they did. Voldemort might not have perished. Potter might have died, rather than merely been tortured to within an inch of his life. And you, most assuredly, would not be standing here: hand on this doorknob, ready to confront this particular demon, whole in body, if not especially so in mind.

3.

The 'dungeon' has rarely been used these past few years; He and His allies were very thorough. But from time to time, His operatives will stumble upon a bit of 'unfinished business,' or Shacklebolt will see fit to send Him a 'token of good will and understanding.'

A Yule gift of sorts, as in this case.

Lucius leans back on the wooden bench as if it were a throne and curls his lip. "Well, well. If it isn't Harry Potter's catamite."

You lean one shoulder against the door and allow yourself a smirk. Once, Lucius's snide observation would have enraged you. These days, such epithets are...amusing. Your relationship with Him is nothing quite so simple as that.

"And if it isn't the once-mighty Lucius Malfoy. Dressed in rags and chained to a wall. Sans wand, I see. Reduced to mouthing impotent schoolboy taunts."

Lucius's lips quirk for a moment, then he inclines his head. "Touché, old friend."

You snort; old friend, indeed. "I expected better of you, Lucius. Where is that much vaunted sense of self-preservation you once possessed? You could have spent the rest of your life gambling in Monte Carlo, wine-tasting in Tuscany, sampling the nightlife of Buenos Aires. And yet, I find you here, on my very doorstep."

"_Your_ doorstop, Severus?" he scoffs. "Potter's, rather. Still afflicted with those delusions, I see, along with that crow-like screech that now serves as your voice."

You manage to force a smile, despite his barbed reminder of the past, its consequences, and the role he played. Yours is the power here and though he may not yet realise it, Lucius has but two options: negotiate or capitulate.

"Your spies are quite misinformed, Lucius. The deed to this estate bears my name as well as His, as any Ministry clerk could attest. I see that your money doesn't buy much competence these days, does it?"

His lips tighten. Clearly he did _not_ know. You look forward to watching him adjust his strategy accordingly.

As you expect, he first continues his insults. "You are hardly one to speak of finances or influence, dear friend. A former schoolteacher with barely two Galleons to rub together, turned Voldemort's, and then Dumbledore's whore. I suppose Potter now pays you well to spread yourself for him. Though why he bothers with such a broken toy I cannot imagine."

The word 'broken' jars the fracture in your mind but you manage to counter. "That is because you lack imagination, Lucius, the ability to see beyond mere appearances. That has always been one of your greatest weaknesses. It is why you served Voldemort long after it was truly wise. Why you tossed aside the counsel offered by your wife and your son. It is why you are here, now, chained to my wall like a common criminal." You pause before twisting the knife. "It is why, Lucius, that despite your money, your cache of Dark artefacts, and all your attempts this past decade to consolidate power, you will never be more than an irritant. A stubborn infestation of garden gnomes. A quarrelsome nest of doxies."

Lucius waves one hand negligently. "Thus speaks Potter's chief-arse licker," he says. "You do know how to throw yourself headlong into a role, don't you? Time was you had your own plans for conquest, Severus. I remember. Potions, the Dark Arts, magical research. Now, you huddle behind Potter, like a broken-winged crow. There are chains, Severus," he says, lifting his arms, his frayed cuffs falling back to reveal the manacles, "and then there are _chains._ I would sooner die than do as you have done. Allowed myself to be taken, utterly debased, as the spoils of war."

Is that how he truly sees it?

Once you believed as he did. As you lay torn and bleeding on the cold stones and wished for death. As you lay, afterwards, staring at the cracked and peeling ceiling in a ward in St. Mungo's; a ward for 'hopeless cases.'

But then He came.

His voice was soft and didn't frighten you. His touch was gentle and you didn't flinch. He didn't require you to talk, only stand beside Him, or walk or sit with Him and listen to Him grieve. Or hold Him in the bleakest hours of the night. Although you had failed to save Him and those he loved before, because He was stronger, He held you through your own terrors, and trembling, He took your mind in His hands and did His best to mend it. And one sunny day in the garden, He presented you with a tray of Ollivander's finest wands. A wand to replace the one that Voldemort shattered, when he shattered your voice.

"Go on, Severus," He said. "Choose one."

The wand chose you, of course, but in that moment, and in every moment that followed, you chose--have continued to choose--Him.

"He allowed you to go free, Lucius," you say quietly. "He did not pursue you, though He could have." Because you asked it of Him, and out of respect for the memory of your godson, His first lover. "But I suppose that Minister Shacklebolt couldn't be persuaded to look the other way, could he? Not when you were discovered, _in flagrante delicto_ with one of his undercover operatives."

Lucius is silent but his obvious fury needs no words. It can't be pleasant for him to contemplate having been snared so easily. Nor to realise that his ability to shame and manipulate you has waned.

You press your advantage. "Who could have guessed that the owner of that particular French establishment would prove to be so...indiscreet?" you continue softly. "That she wouldn't stay properly bought. That the French Ministry has finally chosen to co-operate with British Wizardry in matters such as this." You stride forward smoothly, with purpose; Voldemort's 'sport' may have stripped you of your voice and sanity, but you have retained your carefully cultivated grace. "Who could have guessed that the Phoenix Foundation had developed an effective counter to the entire _Genus Obliviatus_?"

"Your handiwork, I suppose?" Lucius says casually, though his muscles have gone taut. His chains rattle against the wall. You know the signs. His strategy is in tatters. Very shortly, he will launch his final attack.

It will be a pleasure to watch it fail.

"You should have stayed lost, Lucius. You should have run further, hidden more skilfully. You should have better controlled your appetite for cruelty and excess."

Lucius rises slowly and walks forward as far as his chains allow. "Perhaps I should have, at that," he says with a feral smile. "But then, he was so very delicious, Severus. And he suffered beautifully. His creamy skin took the knife like a lover's kiss. His screams were like music." His lips curve in a slight smile. "He was nearly as exquisite as you, dear friend."

His words drop, one by one, unopposed, into the space between you.

Decades have passed since you first came to know Lucius Malfoy, since he bestowed a kind word upon an awkward First Year who had been entirely unfamiliar with kindness. Since he sent you rare, Dark books that you gobbled down as other boys did sticky sweets, since the nights you still--damn you!--recall fondly, when he taught you about the illicit pleasures shared between males.

Years have passed since he sponsored you into Voldemort's service, since you showed him your Dark Mark afterwards, and silently basked in his approval. Fewer years still, since they discovered your treachery and had you punished for your impudence, for having thwarted them. For having saved Harry Potter. For having doomed them all.

And in those years you have learned many things. The expected lessons in rage and vengeance, yes. Advanced tuition in despair and faith. And, unexpectedly, lessons of friendship and love and respect.

All that Lucius may have learned over those years is unknown to you. But one thing is abundantly clear: during that time, he has learned neither to negotiate nor capitulate. Nor to regard you with respect. This time you will allow him to discover these flaws on his own.

Your steady silence unnerves him. The thoughts are clear behind his eyes: Shouldn't you be cowed by now? Or be made malleable by incoherent rage?

Yet, time passes. You remain unmoved. You have confounded his expectations.

He shifts restlessly, rattling the chains. Though his expression doesn't waver, you know him well. Sweat has sprung up along his hair-line and his pupils are dilated. With fear.

Predator turned prey, oh yes.

Lucius breaks the silence first. "I did what I had to do, Severus," he says. "Surely you understand."

You bare your teeth. "Oh, I do indeed. I understand quite well. It was war, after all. We each did what we needed to, to survive. Isn't that right?"

"Yes," he says too quickly.

"And the fact that you enjoyed it, Lucius? That was merely an involuntary response, I presume?"

He throws himself forward, tearing his wrists on the manacles. You watch, mildly fascinated, as blood drips onto the floor. There are many potions that could be enriched by such fluids.

"Hypocrite," he shouts. "What would you have had me do? Defy him? Share in his fate? In your fate? _Yes,_ I enjoyed it! _Yes,_ you were magnificent, lying there, stripped down to naught but your bloody core! I will not apologise for enjoying my handiwork or theirs, unwilling though my participation was."

Hypocrite? Perhaps. Your own hands aren't especially clean. Like Lucius, you committed unspeakable acts at the request of the Dark Lord. But you have never tortured someone you professed to love; you have never killed a child, or broken and then _rebroken_ a friend.

"What you did, or did not do, twelve years ago is of no importance, _old friend,_" you say evenly. "Rather, the question is, what shall _I_ do with _you_ now?"

He pulls up short. "Explain yourself!"

"Oh yes, what shall I do? Shall I strip you, bind you, rape you to death on these cold, hard stones?" You pace in a semicircle around him, wand drawn, just out of reach of his fists; his wandless magic was always limited at best. "Shall I end your suffering quickly with the Killing Curse? Shall I poison you slowly? Should I simply starve you to death, watch a Malfoy grovel and beg for a bit of bread or a thimbleful of water?" Your hands are shaking now. Though your voice cracks on nearly every word, you continue without pity. "Or shall I bind you, Lucius, lock you into a very _narrow_ box, and then _bury you deep_ with _nothing but your screams and your fears and your nightmares to remind you of your humanity!_ Hmm, so many options, Lucius, whichever shall I choose?"

Lucius slows his breathing with effort; he is openly shaking now, his chains jangling discordantly with every shudder. "You'll choose nothing," he says, struggling to sound confident. "Potter will choose. And _he_ will be reasonable. He will want me alive. I can be of use to him. My resources, my knowledge. I know about this research here. He will want what I have and what I know."

It is several long breaths before you can lock your demons in their box again, before you cease seeing him mutilated and dead on the stones.

"Perhaps," you agree. He might be somewhat irritated if you killed Lucius before He'd had his bit of fun. But more importantly, if you start in on him, would you be able to stop? One splinter of your mind whispers, 'Yes.' But the other shards remember too well the caress of his knife against your skin, the agony of his magic, the endless screaming. "In the meanwhile," you say, carefully lowering your wand, "I have grown bored with this conversation. And there are several others who have been anxious to speak with you since you arrived."

You turn your back and walk to the door; his litany of curses fall upon uncaring ears.

A tap of your wand and it opens. Bulstrode and Zabini are looming in the doorway.

Standing away from the wall, wrists bleeding, Lucius stares at them in shock.

"No," he says faintly.

Ah. It seems that he remembers them both, and none too fondly.

"Sir?" They say in unison, each wearing identical expressions of impending mayhem.

You smile. "Yes, Miss Bulstrode and Mr Zabini. By all means, do make your re-acquaintance with Mr Malfoy. No wands, no rape. Otherwise, merely try to preserve his good looks? I believe that Potter may appreciate that."

Soundlessly, with deliberate menace, Zabini and Bulstrode hand over their wands, then stalk past you and into the room. You leave and do not look back.

Moments before the door closes and the first blow falls, you hear Lucius yell, "Damn you, Severus, God _damn you_!"

Eventually, the screams and thumping of fists and booted feet against flesh and bone grows monotonous. You cast a silencing charm and take a seat at the table to play a round of cards. Moody sits beside you and deals them.

Is that a hint of approval on his scarred face? How odd.

But before you can be certain, it is gone.

###

A short while later, Black descends the stairs.

He is a greatly changed man. He wears the same face, more or less, and still loves and protects Him fiercely. But his adventures beyond the Veil transformed him, exchanging odd pieces of who he had been for other, far more peculiar bits.

He is a true Seer now. He commands ghosts, ghouls, and poltergeists. He can dream-walk, incite nightmares, or bring about peaceful sleep. He bears an eerie stillness where once he bristled with restless energy. Behind his grey eyes lie depths unknown to the arrogant, thoughtless boy you once knew.

Years ago, after Black had honoured his life debt to you, he sent Him to you when you lay in hospital, unable to sleep without terror or bear a touch without striking back with killing force. He is _kind_ to you now, although that kindness is not laced with pity, and like you, he is Marked. _He_ insisted, saying that He would not lose either of you again.

His appearance in the dungeon causes a minor stir. There are murmurs of greeting, but no one meets his eyes. Few people truly want their futures foretold as bluntly as Sirius Black is wont to do these days.

He stops at the base of the stairs. "Severus," he says, his voice pitched for your ears alone.

You rise and go to stand with him. Unlike the others, you look at him directly. No matter how grievous, you will always want to know whatever he might foretell for you; there is far less torment in _knowing_ than in _wondering._

Lucius taught you that.

"When you have finished with Malfoy, Harry wants you bring him to the _Renascence_."

Your stomach clenches and for a brief moment, your vision wavers.

_Renascence_ is _your_ place!

Where you each satisfy one another's needs--needs that are whispered about, tittered over, but never spoken of openly. It is the time and space in which He unbinds and scatters the fragments of your mind, then gathers them up again and makes you whole. Where you consent to being dismantled and then restored so that He might safely contain His will to power and not descend into Darkness, or madness.

He swore that He lov--cared for you. But, perhaps...perhaps Lucius is right. Perhaps He has...has finally grown tired of his...his broken toy.

Black shakes his head slightly, as if he knows your thoughts. Damned bastard probably does. He was never much of Legilimens, but he does have the Sight. "Use the Floo," he says and places one hand on your shoulder. His Mark resonates with yours, forcing peace upon your unruly thoughts. "And don't make assumptions, Severus. Stop worrying. 'Tis the season to be merry after all."

To be merry. What rot!

After he departs, you choke down bile and ignore the intense stares from the others. Then you cross the room to open the cell door.

"Zabini, Bulstrode, enough," you say, taking in the bloody tableau. "Clean him up--put some clothes on him, for Merlin's sake!--and bring him. Now."

Delay will not make whatever future of yours Black might have seen any less annihilating.

4.

Thoughts of what-might-come inevitably lead you to consider what-has-come-before, and exactly how your 'now' came to be: Potter wasn't the only visitor to demand your attention that long-ago September.

Draco stormed into your private laboratory the first evening back to school, long after curfew, nigh well raving. "Severus, _please,_ you have to do something!"

Just that morning, a shipment of glassware and ingredients destined for your personal stores had arrived. You neither paused in your unpacking, nor pretended to misunderstand him. "What, exactly, do you wish me to do that has not already done or attempted?"

He looked at you as if you'd gone mad. "We have to get my father out of Azkaban!"

"Do we?" You leaned against one of the lab benches and looked him up and down. He'd grown taller over the summer but obviously no more discerning. "Did you listen to nothing I said tonight, Draco? Or did you listen, but fail to hear." On the heels of your usual lecture to the incoming First Years, you had delivered a private, highly nuanced--and very dangerous--speech to the Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Year students of your House.

"But you didn't really _say_ anything," Draco complained. "You just went on and on about the meaning of 'true courage,' about thinking through mysterious 'things' all the way to the end rather than trusting someone else's conclusions. How you are Oath-Bound, as Head of House, to offer 'completely confidential counsel and impartial guidance to students in need.'" The little brat mimicked you savagely. "Which is why I'm here, that, and you're my godfather, damn it all!"

Merlin's balls, how had a viper like Lucius sired so unsubtle and oblivious a Slytherin as Draco? Perhaps the Sorting Hat had been bribed. The more cunning of your students had deciphered your carefully phrased message. Already, several had made individual appearances at your door, Zabini and Bulstrode among them.

"It is as I thought: you heard but did not understand."

He opened his mouth but you stilled his words with a glare.

"Has it occurred to you, Draco, that Azkaban may be the safest place for Lucius to be at the moment?" Not to mention, safest--or least complicated--for you, if not also for Draco as well. "There is a war coming, you foolish boy, and your father's propaganda aside, its outcome is not a foregone conclusion."

He looked aghast. "That's...that's blood-traitor talk! You stood with the Dark Lord _before!_"

He turned as if to stomp back to the Common Room--most likely to proclaim your lack of faith at the top of his lungs--but you grabbed his arm. "Calm yourself, you little fool," you snapped, giving him a shake, "and listen to me."

His eyes narrowed and his expression was mutinous but he didn't pull away.

Good. Perhaps in Lucius's absence you might instil a bit of caution in the boy. And do away with his absurd, ill-informed delusions of a Voldemort-orchestrated reign of pure-blood wizardry.

You might be able to save his life.

"The Dark Lord is powerful, yes. Not sixteen years ago, the Wizarding World believed him to be nigh well unstoppable. And then," you paused, releasing his arm and taking a few steps back, "something happened."

"Potter," Draco spat promptly.

"Yes, Potter," you agreed, deliberately remaining silent while he worked past his anger and jealousy.

Gradually, he relaxed. "So Potter happened. So what?"

"So what, indeed, Draco?" you said, watching him carefully. "Did you learn nothing from your adventures as a member of Umbridge's Inquisitorial Squad?" You could not help but curl your lip; Umbridge, what an irritating, officious little toad of a witch! "What has become of you and your fellows now that she has been...deposed? How many enemies did you make last year through your petty abuses of the powers that _she_ granted you."

Draco's chin jutted out. "Father says that a wizard without enemies is no better than a Muggle with a wand."

Merlin save you from posturing adolescents! "Acquiring enemies is inevitable, yes," you said, clinging to your patience. "But a wise man chooses his enemies as carefully as he does his friends. And then, only when he must." Hypocrite! "What will you do now that Umbridge is gone, disgraced? How will you defend against your enemies now, Draco?"

"I'm not afraid," he cried, his pride clearly stung; his misadventures with Potter's cronies on the train last term were still juicy fodder for common room gossip. He clenched his fist around his wand. "I'll fight anyone who says otherwise. Besides, my father will--"

"You father is in Azkaban. He cannot help you." And Narcissa will not either, at least not yet; she agreed to allow you the opportunity to make Draco see sense.

You could see the very words, "But that's why I want you to help me get him _out!_" on the tip of his tongue. Uncharacteristically, he left them unspoken. He was listening and thinking. _Finally._

"It is interesting how the balance of power--how one's fortunes--can be reversed in a single instant, isn't it?" you mused, tapping one finger against your lower lip. "One day, the Dark Lord held the world in his grasp. The next? _Pfft_. And what of those," you tapped your left forearm, "who bound their fates to his?"

Draco's eyes widened; _that_ had made an impression.

"Not everyone then, or now, is a Lucius Malfoy, Draco. You, personally, have neither his wealth nor his influence." Nor his political acumen. "And yet still he is in Azkaban. So _think,_ boy before you mindlessly follow along in his footsteps!"

You paced towards him deliberately. He took a step back.

"Your father made Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster, newly reinstated senior member of the Wizengamot and Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards his enemy. Is he your enemy as well, Draco?"

You continued your advance until Draco was pressed against the wall beside the bookcase. "As an _infant,_ Harry Potter disrupted the Dark Lord's plans for well over a decade. At thirteen years of age, he cast a fully corporeal Patronus. At fourteen, he cast off the Imperius curse, defeated three more experienced wizards in the Triwizard Tournament, and survived a face-to-face confrontation with the Dark Lord himself. At fifteen, he and a band of his half-trained friends _successfully_ thwarted the Dark Lord at the Ministry and was instrumental in sending your father to Azkaban. Do you want Potter for your enemy, too?" You paused to let that sink in. "If so, then you have made a fine start these past five years with your absurd antics--'Weasley is Our King,' Granger the Mudblood,' and your puerile masquerade as a Dementor."

His face paled and he caught his lip between his teeth.

"Ah. So now you begin to see that this is no game, Draco," you said in a quieter voice. "I have made my choice, but my choice is not yours. Nor is Lucius's, no matter what he might like you to believe. You want my confidential counsel as your godfather and Head of House? Well then, hear this: you, and you alone, will pay the price for that decision, and I warn you, that price may be very, _very_ dear."

The belligerent spoilt brat was gone. In his place stood a terrified young man who was finally seeing past the dazzle of his father's nimbus of power and of Voldemort's vision, to their blood- and death-steeped foundations. A young man who had only just realised that no one could _or would_ mitigate the consequences of this particular choice.

Damn Lucius for having sheltered the boy so!

"What will it cost you, Draco?" you continued without mercy. "The life of someone you love? The esteem of your peers or family? Your wealth or your future? Your life or your soul? What are you willing to pay?" You had moved closer to him with each question. Now, you stood chest-to-chest staring down at him. He was pale and shaking. "Will you cringe and plead when the bill comes due, or will you have the courage to do whatever is required because it is a logical outcome of the course you set?"

"I...I don't know," he said faintly.

"I know you don't." You turned on your heel and stalked back to your phials and neatly packaged ingredients. "Which is why I will not help you with this," you continued, as if unconcerned that his very life was at stake. "_You_ must think this through, Draco. You must stand apart from your father's plans and decide--given your skills, your inclinations, your beliefs _and your clear-eyed assessment of your own limitations_\--what is the best path for _you_."

After a long silence he said, "That's what you meant by courage tonight, isn't it?"

Suddenly exhausted, you bowed your head. "Yes."

"I thought...I guess...I didn't expect that it would be like...I didn't know it would be so hard," he said, his voice thick with some emotion.

There was another long pause then Draco said formally, "Thank you for your counsel, Professor Snape. I will think upon your words."

The door creaked open, then closed; he was gone.

Heart hammering in your chest, you slumped against the table and tried not to despair.

One week later, he returned. You held your breath.

"This doesn't mean I have to actually _like_ Potter, does it?" he asked.

You exhaled slowly then smiled.

5.

The four of you Floo to the hearth in the fifth floor great room. This wing of the estate, containing the personal quarters of everyone in His household, is heavily warded against unauthorised 'visitors.'

You stride from the flames first. Zabini and Bulstrode follow, dragging Lucius, whose hands are still bound with the magic-suppressing manacles, between them. Although his clothing has been mended and cleaned, and most of the grime has been wiped away, he still looks quite the worse for wear.

"I don't think much of your hospitality thus far, Severus," he mumbles through bloodied and swollen lips. "You could at least have offered me a brandy."

"That's _Professor_ Snape, Malfoy," Bulstrode says, carefully punching him in the ribs; he gasps. "And you're a fine one to talk about hospitality."

"Quite," Zabini adds, with an elbow of his own to Lucius's gut. "I didn't think much of your 'hospitality' during my stay at Malfoy Manor." Like you, Zabini had been a spy for the Order. Like you, he had been tortured for information and sport. He'd also watched his mother and younger sister be murdered before his eyes: a lesson to other potential blood-traitors. "I'd say that you've been treated rather well, all things considered. No hexes, no starvation, no Unforgivables. No hostages. No 'experiments.' Yeah, you've had it damned easy so far, Malfoy."

"The Dark Lord dictated the punishment for blood-traitors, Zabini. It was nothing personal on my part, I assure you."

Bulstrode takes exception; when on mission, she'd been captured and gang-raped by three of Voldemort's newly made faithful, on Malfoy's orders. Rumour had it that there'd been quite a bit of chatter during the 'festivities,' how 'with a face like hers, it was only way she would every get laid.' She punches him in the back of the head with her fist. The _crack_ and his subsequent groan echoes round the empty room. "Shut it, Malfoy, and show some respect. Otherwise, I'll rip off your cock and bollocks and cram them down your throat. And stop bleeding on the carpets, you inconsiderate bastard."

Lucius never learns. "If you're so damned concerned about the carpet, you'd best let Severus heal me then," he says. "You've done a piss-poor job of it, Bulstrode. You're about as skilled as you are pleasing to the eye. Which is to say, not at all."

"I said, _shut it,_ Malfoy," Bulstrode snaps back, punctuating every other syllable with a jab of her fist.

"Let him babble while he can," you toss over your shoulder; so long as they don't use wands, most damage done to him can be easily reversed. "Very shortly, he'll be doing little more than pleading for his life."

"And you accuse me of having no imagination," Lucius says in between gasps. His cultured voice is rough from screaming; the symmetry satisfies you deeply. "Unlike you, Severus," he says, "_I_ have value. If Potter is half the wizard you believe him to be, if he's truly serious about his so-called research, he'll recognise what I have to offer."

His words nearly force the air from your lungs. But like Bulstrode, Zabini is adept at guarding more than your physical person.

"I'd watch my tongue if I were you, Malfoy," he says cheerfully. "Potter was more than enough wizard to burn your pathetic scaly master to cinders. And he doesn't like you much, as I recall. Something to do with a few dead Weasleys. Amongst other things."

Bulstrode laughs; Lucius is conspicuously silent. You manage to breathe again.

###

Just outside the archway to _Renascence_, He and Granger are clearly in the midst of a heated argument. Black is standing off to one side, but well within the Circle of Silence that has been raised. He observes them with eerie stillness; his usual irritating mien since returning from beyond the Veil.

Were Lupin still alive, he might take his turn as mealy-mouthed peacemaker. In his absence, your inept best will have to do. Annoying though she is, Granger is a valuable asset to the Foundation, and no matter what your future might hold--what status you may or may not possess in the hours to come--He truly cares for her. Her loss would devastate Him.

You wave Bulstrode and Zabini to a halt, well out of earshot at the end of the hall, and stride forward into the Circle.

"Harry, no. No," Granger is saying. "You're better than this."

"Better than what?"

"You know exactly what I mean, Harry Potter. Don't do this. Don't sink to his level. Turn him over to Kingsley for proper justice."

"Proper justice," He says, having turned at your approach. He meets your eyes briefly, but does not smile--

Your stomach clenches.

\--and looks past you to where Lucius waits; then He laughs. The sound raises the short hairs on the back of your neck. "Right, by all means, Hermione," He says, "let's make sure that a mass-murderer and all-around sadistic prick like Malfoy gets his 'proper justice.'"

"Harry--"

"These histrionics are quite unnecessary, Miss Granger," you say. "Especially given that a cadre of Minister Shacklebolt's Aurors brought Malfoy here early this morning."

The silence within the Circle is deafening. For such a smart witch, Granger can be wilfully blind at times.

"No," she says, faintly. "No, he wouldn't do that. Not when I asked him..."

"_You_ asked him? You asked him _what,_ Hermione?" He says, fists clenched. Your Mark vibrates with His outrage and betrayal.

Her expression turns mulish. "Well, someone had to do it, Harry. None of your other 'advisors'" her scathing glance sweeps over you and Black, "were going to do anything to stop you."

"Stop me?" He says, jaw clenched. "You're a fine one to talk! How many times did you--little Miss 'Oh, But We Can't Break the Rules, Harry'--lie, cheat, or steal while we were still in school? What about Skeeter and Umbridge and Filch? How many crimes did _you_ commit while working for Dumbledore? Your hands are just as bloody as the rest of ours, so don't act like you're somehow above it all."

"That was for the greater good, Harry, not for petty revenge!"

"Petty revenge?" He says softly; you feel a trickle of ice water down the back of your neck. "Ask Molly if she believes my idea of justice is 'petty.'" Granger swallows hard. "Ask McGonagall. Ask Sirius," He says, his voice rising. She pales. "Ask Severus, Hermione, if you have any doubt. Ask _him_ what he thinks of my justice!"

She carefully does not look at you. She respects your skills, your knowledge, but she has never approved of your presence in His household. Nor your role in seeing to His needs.

"The ends don't always justify the means, Harry," she says. "I learned that the hard way."

And she did; Minerva has never forgiven her for it.

"So...what? What _should_ I do with him, oh wise and all-knowing best friend and advisor? The Dementors are gone now, remember? Should I ask him a few friendly questions--without Veritaserum or the Cruciatus Curse, mind--then set him up in a cozy cell in Azkaban feed him three meals a day for a few years? Is that fitting punishment for what he's done? Or no, maybe I should try to _rehabilitate_ him, yes? Let him teach the children about the dangers of following insane evil wizards hell-bent on world domination and genocide!"

"Damn it, Harry, you know that's not what I meant!"

But you know Granger; that is exactly the sort of thing she had in mind.

"This is about _you_," she continues urgently. "This is about all of us watching you lose yourself bit by bit, and no one doing a damned thing to stop it. This is exactly what Dumbledore was afraid of."

Your gut tightens; the actual or hypothetical opinions of the now-deceased Headmaster of Hogwarts are topics best not broached in His presence.

His laugh is ugly. "And you think I'd actually give a damn what that lying bastard would think of me? _I_ killed Voldemort, not him. I did it despite that damned prophecy. I survived, Hermione, when he was convinced that I only lived as a baby so that I could die saving the whole damned world by offing Voldemort eighteen years later."

Black shifts slightly and she looks uneasy.

By all rights, yes, He should have died with Voldemort, their lives were bound. But then, Sirius Black was supposed to stay dead, too.

Trelawny's prophecy hadn't counted on Black's nightmarish army of the vengeful dead to turn the tide of the war the second time round. Nor had it expected him to sever the link between Him and Voldemort and face down Death itself to keep his godson alive. Death took James and Lily because of Black's mistake; prophecy or no, Black refused, full stop, to let it take Him as well.

Nothing if not adaptable, Granger tries another tack, one that makes it difficult for you to breathe. "If the rumours are true, then Lucius Malfoy is the most visible of many who are still sympathetic to Voldemort's agenda. Do you really want to make a martyr of the man?"

His voice hardens. "I want him to pay, Hermione. He killed my--he killed Ron. And Bill, and George, and Arthur. And Draco. And Viktor, too. Or did you somehow forget all that."

They glare at one another for a long moment then she finally relents. "I haven't forgotten a single thing, Harry. Do what you want." She hides neither her anger nor her disgust. "You will anyway. You always do." Her eyes narrow. "But this is the last straw. This time, I wash my hands of it. And of you. _All_ of you," she snaps, taking in you and Black with her snarl. "I resign." With one wave of her wand, she dispels the Circle.

Although His fierce expression doesn't change, the pulse of anguish through the Mark nearly stops your heart.

"Let us not be hasty, Miss Granger," you say, catching her arm as she turns stiffly to walk away. "After all, we do not know precisely what sort of 'justice' Potter has in mind, do we?"

She blinks at you, open-mouthed. Black says nothing, though his lips curve in a slight smile. The Mark radiates worry and a hint of relief.

Granger jerks away from you and snarls, "If you don't have a good idea what he has planned then you have most definitely lost what little was left of your mind."

You shrug; the truth no longer hurts. Much.

"Hermione..."

She holds up her hand. "Fine, Harry, fine. I won't resign. But I won't let this go either," she warns. "I've kept silent too many times as it is," she aims a venomous glance at you. "I've got to draw the line somewhere. And I'm still going to give Kingsley a piece of my mind. I don't know what the man was thinking!" She clenches her fists and stalks down the corridor, intentionally knocking into Bulstrode and looking as if she wants to spit on Malfoy. Or incinerate him on the spot.

Lucius laughs. Bulstrode appears to want to cold-cock Granger but restrains herself with effort; allies are not necessarily friends. Zabini looks a question at you; you gesture for him to stay put.

"That went well," Black says mildly.

He glares at Black. "You could have said _something_ rather than standing there like a bloody statue."

"Why bother?"

"Especially when you know what He has planned and how it all turns out, isn't that right, Black?" you say sourly. Black-as-Seer can be as infuriatingly enigmatic as Dumbledore at his worst.

_He_ seems equally annoyed by Black's smugness. "You can't See what I haven't even decided yet." He looks down the hall to where Bulstrode and Zabini are holding Lucius upright, pinned against the wall; His lips thin.

"Oh, but you have decided, Harry," Black says. "And Hermione will be quite satisfied with the outcome."

"Will she?" you sneer. "Well happy bloody Christmas to Miss Granger."

Black laughs outright. "So will you, Severus."

Black's words should be a comfort; his visions are usually quite accurate. But His continued existence demonstrates that no prediction is ever guaranteed to come to pass.

"Enough, you two," He snaps. "Severus, bring Malfoy to me. I have quite a few things to discuss with him."

With a sense of foreboding, you gesture for Bulstrode and Zabini. They drag Malfoy--who loudly protests that he can manage on his own two feet, thank you very much--into His presence.

"So, Potter," Lucius says. "I see that you don't have all your pets quite so well-trained as Black and Snape, here."

He raises His wand. The corridor grows dim and power crackles visibly across the space between them. Lucius blanches.

"You might wish to moderate your tone, Lucius," you say snidely. "You have already been caged. Do you wish to find yourself either put to leash or even _put down_ before you can make your 'case' to Mr Potter regarding your so-called value to His organisation?"

Black actually grins at that; odd.

Lucius opens his mouth to retort but He pre-empts him, gesturing sharply towards the archway with His wand. The space in-between ripples but remains opaque giving you no hint as to how He has arranged the room beyond.

"In," He commands Lucius.

After a moment's hesitation, Malfoy wisely obeys.

"I will send for you later," He says to you, then follows Lucius inside.

You fully intend to wait in the corridor until He calls, but Black shakes his head.

"I'll stay nearby to make certain that Harry is okay," he says. As if Lucius really poses a threat to a wizard of His calibre. "Go and get some rest, Severus. You're going to need it."

Ambiguous words, multiple meanings, a hint or a warning or a promise? Merlin-be-damned tangle-tongued Seers who can't say what they mean straight out!

You tear your gaze away from the arch and make your way down the hall. With dignity, of course, because your hope--and sanity--isn't draining away with each step.

No, it isn't, not at all.

###

Too agitated to return to your laboratory, instead, you retreat to your suite in the South Wing.

Bulstrode and Zabini are distressed by your silence.

"Sir," she ventures, "do you want us to, should we, what would you like us to do?"

"There is no need for either of you to wait. This wing is impenetrable," you say with forced calm. "Go and enjoy what is left of the day. Blaise, I have no doubt that Mr Smith would welcome your company. And Millicent," you gesture towards her bleeding knuckles, "you need to have that hand seen to. Malfoy has an uncommonly hard head." She manages a smile. "I shall see both of you at the usual time and place, tomorrow morning."

As you close the door, the two exchange a significant glance. No doubt they will be waiting outside when He calls for you.

It still surprises you that you have inspired such loyalty.

In better times, you listened to their midnight fears, you shared the unvarnished truth as you knew it, you forced them to _think._ In the darkest of times, you could do naught but simply _be there_: with a potion to ease their pain, to bear silent witness to their sorrow, with a veiled gesture or the briefest touch of your hand to let them know they weren't alone--they had not been abandoned--even in the midst of torture.

You made no promises, you could offer little solace, and yet they would die for you--so many _did_ die for you--because no true Child of the Serpent ever lives or dies for something so abstract as a cause.

Your thoughts turn to Him and though your throat is tight, you smile: like them, you are no exception to that rule.

###

The late afternoon sun streams through the large French doors in your parlour painting the entire room red-gold; Gryffindor colours. Headmistress McGonagall would be amused.

After the war had been won, long after the months you'd spent as a 'guest' of the Dark Lord (and Bellatrix and Lucius) and your recovery in St. Mungo's, Minerva had asked you to return to teaching.

"With so many families fractured, the students need guidance more than ever now, Severus," she'd said. "Especially the Slytherins. You're a role model for them, a hero. And student grousing aside, you are a gifted teacher. I would welcome your help during the rebuilding of Hogwarts. We still have so much to do."

But the dungeons were too dark, the ceilings too low, the corridors echoed with the phantom voices of the students you'd failed to save. You were barely fit then to care for yourself, let alone see to the health and welfare of traumatised children.

She was insistent. Capable or not, you might have capitulated--and failed miserably at the task--but He interceded; Minerva finally let be. Rather than Hogwarts, He brought you here, gave you a laboratory, apprentices, a mission, companionship, and a private space of your own. He gave you these large, light-filled, south-facing rooms, where you could drift off to sleep and awaken, never once being reminded of having been buried alive.

You had never once given thought to what you might do were He to change His mind.

Down below your window, on the grounds, the children are playing in the snow. Orphans, young werewolves, Muggle-borns snatched from orphanages or foster-homes, and children whose parents, overwhelmed by the war and the chaos that followed, had simply abandoned them. They are a nuisance some times, as children usually are, clamouring for sweets, stories, or jokes. The youngest ones always asking you to show them a bit of magic, the oldest wanting to show off what they know. But you would miss them anyway; the tangible evidence that all your sacrifices--all those deaths--had not been in vain.

You slam your palm against the window casement. "Enough, Severus, enough!" Then you make your way through your quarters to prepare a bath.

Whatever your fate, you will meet it clean, dressed in your finest, not cringing and stinking of brimstone and dragons' blood.

6.

The year following his defeat at the Ministry, Voldemort was mostly quiescent, rethinking his strategy, breaking his Death Eaters out of Azkaban, reforging old alliances, and gathering his forces.

You remained at Hogwarts, an acknowledged double-agent. Dumbledore claimed to trust you completely, but Voldemort certainly did not. Though truth be told, the Dark Lord trusted no one; he had become paranoid, Potter-obsessed, and increasingly unstable since acquiring his latest body.

Mindful of the potential for disaster, you carefully fed both Voldemort and Dumbledore just enough information to maintain the balance of power with the fewest casualties possible, on either side. Stalling for time while Potter grew into his power so as to rid the Wizarding World of the Dark Lord's menace once and for all. And to die in the process, of course.

_Either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives._

That revelation came as a nasty shock; you'd ripped the full text of the Prophecy from Potter's mind one night during an especially brutal Occlumency lesson.

Potter was justifiably angry and resentful about the whole business. "That bastard could have just told me upfront," he'd snarled about Dumbledore. "All this crap, being orphaned, the Dursleys, the basilisk, Cedric, Quidditch, _Wingardium Leviosa,_ revising for O.W.L.s, all of it, for what? So I can kill or be killed, but either way, I end up dead."

"Remember, Potter, you have an advantage: the prophecy claims that you have a power that is unknown to the Dark Lord."

"That 'power'--the protection my mother gave me--is gone, Professor, remember _that?_ Voldemort stole it, along with my blood two years ago."

You temporised. "Maybe, maybe not. It could be that the passage refers to something else entirely."

His expression grew thunderous. "Don't you start, not you too. I've had more than enough of Dumbledore's shite about the power of love. You've never lied to me before, don't start now."

A change of subject was clearly in order. "Very well, I shan't," you said, then raised your wand and shouted, "_Legilimens!_"

###

Still banned from Quidditch, Potter threw himself headlong into his studies with you. Once properly motivated, he'd proven to be--surprisingly--an apt pupil of Occlumency. In addition, you taught him every sneaky, back-handed Light, Dark, and Darker hex, spell, and jinx you knew; he soaked all of it up like a snake basking on a flat rock in the sun.

Lupin had claimed that Potter had an unusual gift for defensive--and offensive--magic. It was a good thing for you all that the werewolf wasn't prone to exaggeration. It was doubly fortunate that Potter also had no compunction about striking first, hard, and often when it came to those he believed 'deserved it.' The Dark Lord and his minions most definitely fitted that category.

"Storming in, without a plan, like some avenging hero will get you killed outright, Potter. You must learn to be cunning, to lie and cheat, to fight dirty and without hesitation or mercy. I do assure you that neither the Dark Lord nor his followers will play fair."

"Then do it again, Professor," he would say, dragging himself up, exhausted and bruised, after a spell you'd cast had slammed him into a wall, a table, a bookshelf, or even against the ceiling of the Room of Requirement a few times. "Do it again. I _will_ get this. If I have to die, I'm going to take as many of them with me as I can."

Coming from Potter, that sentiment struck a discordant note. The truth of the matter was revealed late one night as you healed his most serious cuts and bruises. "I already got Sirius killed once," he said, "No one else dies because of me. No one."

_Oh, Potter,_ you wanted to say, _this is war, if only that could be true._ Instead, you raised your eyebrow. "Is that so? And here I thought that I was solely to blame for your godfather's untimely demise."

"I thought so too," he'd said in a world-weary tone. "Then I grew up. Now, we're wasting time. It's nearly midnight. So again, show me again."

You obliged him, that night and many more afterwards.

Perhaps that is why you rose from your bed in St. Mungo's and followed him to Taynton Hall, Gloucestershire; perhaps obliging Harry Potter had become, over the years, a kind of comfortable habit.

Perhaps, despite the deed to the house, the quiet days and nights of companionship, He was used to you obliging Him and that was all it had ever been.

###

On the nights following each lesson, you would, of course, listen to your 'apprentices' complain about how Potter had pummelled them mercilessly during their D.A. tutorials.

"Consider it a foretaste of what you will experience should you make but a single misstep along this path," you would remind them. That usually quelled their grousing, except for Draco. He always whinged the loudest.

"He's on me all the time, Severus," he said one night as you healed his broken wrist. "Pick, pick, pick. Everything I do or say is wrong. Then, he throws me into a wall!"

"Perhaps Potter merely likes you," you smirked, expecting sputtering outrage, at the very least.

Instead, Draco blushed and didn't meet your eyes.

You nearly groaned aloud. Dumbledore would throw a wobbly; bad enough to have one poof on the staff, next thing, he'd accuse you of corrupting innocents. "Draco. You idiot."

He bristled. "It's not as if he stands a chance with Weasley, now is it?"

Potter's gawky charm, charisma, and intensity notwithstanding, Weasley was as straight as the proverbial goblin banker; Draco had a point, assuming that he stood a chance with Potter either.

"And here I thought you despised Famous Harry Potter."

"You don't have to like someone to fuck them," he scoffed, not at all convincingly.

You frowned. "Listen to me, Draco. Beware emotional entanglements. They are a liability, they can cloud your thinking, leave you vulnerable to manipulation."

He gave you a long level look. "I suppose you would know, wouldn't you?"

###

Dumbledore knew about the lessons but rarely said more than, "So, how are Harry's studies coming?"

"Your weapon is not ready yet, Albus," you would say, "it needs far more shaping and tempering."

He would frown. "Harry is not an 'it,' Severus." _Liar._ "And given what our agents--and you--have said about Tom's movements, we don't have much time."

"Then you'd better find some way to _make_ time," you'd retort, "or get Black to amend that prophecy. Otherwise we're all lost."

But by the middle of Potter's seventh year, there was no more time, and you were not fated to complete Potter's training.

That task belonged to the Dark Lord himself.

7.

An hour's soak in the tub does nothing to calm your worries or banish your recollections of the past. Nor does combing out the tangles in your hair; He prefers--preferred to attend to that task Himself.

An odd and intimate service for one man to do for another--especially given your once-contentious history--but He claims that it soothes Him. You have come to relish it as well. Those quiet mornings when you sit cross-legged before Him, head bowed, while He pulls the comb through your hair reminds you of how far you have both travelled. Every snarl coaxed free denotes one of the many obstacles you have overcome to achieve that rare peace; the smooth strokes of the brush afterwards conveys, in no uncertain terms, that although things always change, they sometimes do so for the better.

You and He shouldn't have come to be at all.

He was the son of a man you despised. You were the embodiment of all that was cruel and unfair, ugly and unapologetically true. During His evening lessons, you each vented your rage and hopelessness--legacies of your deprived and bitter histories--upon the other with scathing words intended to wound and vicious spells meant to maim. You nightly plundered one another's minds, dredging up ancient hurts and humiliations, the most intimate of fears and desperate longings. By all rights, you should have despised one another even more afterwards.

Yet those acts, intended to harm--that _did_ do harm, no question--had had a curious and powerful alchemical side effect: they slowly transmuted contempt into compassion, rage into acceptance, and resentment into understanding.

The initial awareness of change came, late one night, while you sat side-by-side on the cold stone floor, backs against the wall, still panting from your exertions.

"You know, Professor," he said, brushing his hair away from his sweaty face, revealing his scar, "when you tally everything up, we're not all that different, you and me, not really."

Whilst doing battle with him, your sleeve had been torn away. The Dark Mark was livid and aching on your forearm. You thought about all you had experienced, all that you had inflicted upon him, all that you'd relived in his mind and yours. Two bitter and scarred wizards, teetering between rage and despair, both jealously guarding a shameful secret buried deep inside: Hope.

"Hmm. All things considered, and age and physical dissimilarities aside, we are, in fact, more alike than not, Mr Potter," you agreed, tilting your head to look at him.

He had grown a fair bit over the past year, his shoulders broadening and his voice deepening. There was stubble on his cheeks, and his hands, where they dangled over his knees, were long-fingered and graceful. Changes you really shouldn't have been noticing, except how they might impact his training progress.

"Call me Harry, then," he said, regarding you seriously.

You suppressed a laugh: respect and understanding from James Potter's own son! Of all the mistakes, choices, and curious twists of fate in your past, how had they brought you to this peculiar place? And more importantly: _Where would they lead next?_

There was only one possible reply to such a declaration: "In that case, Harry," you said, "you may call me Severus."

He looked at you and nodded, as if you had confirmed something he'd known all along. "Okay," he said, "thank you, sir. Severus. I will. Now, do you think we should try that last hex again?"

You struggled to your feet and offered him a hand up. "I'm ready if you are," you said.

He smiled and clasped your hand...

When you finally return to the present, the warm afternoon sun has waned and twilight has wash the bedroom with violet and indigo. You touch the hairbrush lying upon your lap and sigh: one more thing you will miss when, if, when you are gone.

8.

Black's resurrection and his burgeoning skills as a Seer were closely guarded secrets. As was his uncanny affinity for, and ability to summon the dead. Skills that began to manifest themselves a few short months following his return.

Despite his frequent attacks on Potter's mind, Voldemort remained unaware of these facts; Potter had quickly become an accomplished Occlumens and Legilimency-at-a-distance was not as effective. Also, under the guise of increased security--fully endorsed by the Ministry and the Board of Governors--Dumbledore had limited on-site parental and press visits. Your apprentices helped matters along by filling their parents' ears with tales of Potter's enduring grief and guilt over his godfather's demise.

Tensions and tempers ran high as the months slipped past with only sporadic activity from Voldemort.

The Dark Mark was raised over a few shops and homes here and there, owned by wizards and witches who had opposed Voldemort during the first war. Dementors ravaged a few villages. Some Muggles were abducted for various blood rites. Lucius, Dolohov, Rookwood, and a few others were disappeared from Azkaban--thus complicating the lives of many of your apprentices whose relatives had been amongst the prisoners. Some Ministry offices were vandalised, but all in all, very little in the way of substantive or intensive Dark actions took place. Regardless, the public was up in arms and the Ministry scrambled to mitigate the damage.

"You will give us some warning when he is truly ready to move, won't you, Severus?" Dumbledore asked you repeatedly that year, his blue gaze penetrating despite his mild words; the pressure of his mind against yours--evidence of wandless Legilimency--was palpable.

"I want him dead as much as you do, as well you know!" you'd finally shouted at him. Voldemort had promised you fame, fortune, triumph over your enemies, and everlasting life. He'd delivered gnawing terror, humiliation, abject servility, and the deaths of too many you'd come to care about--your feckless lover, Regulus, included. "As I've told you before, it's all about strike and run. That's his plan for the moment. Create a climate of suspicion and fear, set neighbour against neighbour, friend against friend. Occupy law enforcement man-power with petty incidents to distract away from his actual plan: eliminate Potter and, if at all possible, you as well." Beyond that, the Dark Lord's agenda was sketchy, even to those in his inner circle.

"Even so, Severus, surely you must know something that could help us. Perhaps if we reviewed your last two meetings in the Pensieve again..."

Exasperated, you threw up your hands. "What would you have me do, Albus? He has split his inner circle, distributed the information amongst us. He meets with us individually or in small groups to limit our knowledge of one another's plans. You know all that _I_ know." Which admittedly, wasn't much.

"This time is not like the time before, is it?" Dumbledore said wearily.

It came to you then that, powerful wizard or no, Dumbledore was old, frail. Mortal.

"Why not ask your pet Seer?" you said, surprised at the lack of either sneer or venom in your voice. "Unlike Trelawney, his predictions have proved accurate thus far."

He sighed. "I have asked him. All he can say is what we already know. 'There is a darkness approaching, one that will threaten all held dear.'"

Something about the phrasing struck you as odd; they brought to mind your advice to Draco earlier in the year: _Beware emotional entanglements._ "All held dear," you said slowly. "All that we hold dear, or that _he_ holds dear?"

Dumbledore looked at you sharply. "You're positive that Voldemort doesn't know that Sirius is alive."

You glowered at him.

"Then the next obvious choice would be Harry's relatives."

And so it proved to be.

In the summer of Potter's sixth year, Vernon Dursely was found in the flat of a known drug user and prostitute, naked and dead, the victim of an apparent heart attack. The son, Dudley, suffered a fatal brain haemorrhage during a regional championship boxing match. His horror- and grief-stricken mother, Petunia, was conveniently run down in the street in front of the cemetery two weeks later by a driverless lorry. She lingered for a while--long enough to spit in Potter's face--then died in hospital. Number four Privet Drive burned to the ground the following day.

Thus, the line of Evans was ended and Potter came to stay at Hogwarts.

He didn't seem visibly shaken by the trio of 'tragedies.'

"They hated me and I hated them," he said with a shrug. "Too bad how they died, but everybody dies. It was going to happen sometime, anyway. Better them than me."

"My, my," you said, "What ever became of 'No one else dies because of me'?"

His jaw tightened. "Okay, so maybe I feel a little guilty. Maybe I'm a little...conflicted. But that doesn't mean that I cared about them."

You squeezed his shoulder. "We may choose our friends and lovers, Harry, but we do not get to choose our relatives."

"Is that supposed to mean something? Is that supposed to be a comfort?" He sounded outraged. "Never mind, don't answer that. Do something useful and show me the counter to this next curse."

So you did.

Time passed.

Potter and his cohorts studied for exams. You spied, plotted with your apprentices, suffered through the occasional Cruciatus, and struggled to teach unruly, disinterested students the art of potions-making. Voldemort's 'random' attacks grew more frequent and more focussed. Families and individuals who'd opposed him last time around were targeted. The noose around Potter's neck tightened.

Lupin was next.

Despite Dumbledore's precautions, the intelligence you provided, and Black's warnings, Lupin disappeared, two days before the full moon, while on a risky mission to recruit an enclave of werewolves.

His still-warm body was discovered one week later on the front steps of Hogwarts; his death had not been an easy one.

The three Second Year students who'd found him shrieked hysterically until they were sedated. Potter, who'd heard the news first, via careless student gossip, had flown into a rage that left two tables, a sofa, and a throw rug in the Gryffindor common room in smoking ruins. Minerva had been forced to _Stupefy_ him--twice--then cast an _Expelliarmus_, quickly followed by a _Petrificus Totalis_ before you could get near enough to pour an Oblivion Draught down his throat.

Later that afternoon, you, Dumbledore, Minerva, and Black gathered in a private room in the hospital wing. Black-as-dog had been Floo'd in from his exile at 12 Grimmauld Place.

"Dolohov's handiwork," you said, looking down at the body of the man who'd stood back and done nothing too many times while you'd been tormented by his friends. "And Pettigrew's. These are silver burns here, on his thighs." And his anus and genitals, too. It seemed that Pettigrew harboured a bit of lingering rage towards Lupin as well.

"We appear to have underestimated Mr Pettigrew once again," Minerva said softly, covering Lupin's remains with a sheet.

Dumbledore looked old and tired. "Is there anything else we can determine? What about you, Sirius, are you able to..." he fumbled a bit, "...to pick up anything from the body?"

Black-the-man had stood silently, unembarrassed by the tears streaming down his face. Now he touched his friend's body and flinched back, as if burned; reliving Lupin's last hours couldn't have been pleasant. "The werewolves were Voldemort's agents," he said. "And he knows that I'm alive."

Merlin's hairy balls.

"That means you're next, Black," you sneered.

It also meant that very shortly, your Mark would burn black. You would go before the Dark Lord, and would likely spend the next day or so writhing under the Cruciatus, trying to explain why you failed to learn of, or to share this valuable titbit. Fucking werewolf; you would pay for his weakness, his inability to withstand torture and thereby carry his secrets to the grave. Goddamned Gryffindor golden boys, weaklings, each and every one of them.

Minerva was scandalised. "Severus!"

"Unfortunately, Severus is correct," Dumbledore said. "Sirius, it is imperative that you--"

"Do nothing at all," Black said, turning his unnerving silver gaze on Dumbledore. "What happens next must happen if Harry is to defeat Voldemort."

"Explain yourself, Black!" you snapped, sick to death of his deliberate 'air of mystery.' "What has to happen? _How_ exactly is Potter supposed to defeat Voldemort?" And not die in the process.

"The prophecy says that Harry has a power Voldemort knows nothing about."

You suppressed the urge to shake him. He was far less infuriating when he was a good-looking, arrogant bastard with an enormous sense of entitlement and a mean streak a mile wide. "We are all aware of that. What of it?"

"I've come to think that the nature of that power can be interpreted in several ways."

You gritted your teeth. "Such as?"

He might have explained then, but Poppy burst into the room. "Albus, Minerva, someone _must_ see to Harry immediately. He's about to rip apart the hospital wing and he's scaring the other students."

"Go to him, Severus," Black said, surprising you. "You'll know what to say."

"Yes, Severus. I do believe that is an excellent idea. You seem to have developed a rapport with Harry." Dumbledore clearly wanted you out of the way, no doubt to head off any impending violence.

You snorted, noting Albus's unspoken displeasure; it wasn't your fault that he'd fractured his relationship with Potter beyond repair. "This conversation is not over yet, Black. I still want to know--"

"And you will. Soon. I can promise you that."

You could hear Potter shouting in the background; you stalked out of the room, cursing Black under you breath as you went.

As expected, Voldemort called you shortly thereafter. You grovelled and screamed and bled, all the while blathering a tale about a Secret-Keeper (always best to keep a lie as close to the truth as possible) which Voldemort appeared to believe--it was Dumbledore's style after all.

Two days later, when Dementors descended upon Muggle London and were establishing a perimeter around 12 Grimmauld Place...when Black burst from his confinement, methodically extracted the souls they'd consumed, then tore the creatures apart, bit by screaming malevolent bit, and hurled them into the Void...it became abundantly clear that interpretation, subtext, and double-meanings were everything when it came to understanding a prophecy.

Potter did indeed have at least one power the Dark Lord knew not, one that was neither wholly love nor entirely magical. It was a synthesis of both that took the curious form of a wizard: his godfather, Sirius Black.

9.

After the bath, you dress in the clothing of yours that he liked best. Contemporary dress: white shirt, black boots, trousers, and under-robe, with an over-robe of heavy brocade in deepest indigo; underwear was, is, was unnecessary. Your mirror has been charmed into silence, but you know what it would say about your reflection; that gives you an unexpected bit of courage.

There is a timid rapping on your bedroom door. You open it to reveal a house-elf clad in a maroon jumper, several knitted hats, and a pair of violently crimson socks. You appreciate that he has knocked; you do not like unexpected Apparitions into your quarters.

"Harry Potter is asking Dobby to come to get Professor Snape. He asks that you come to _Renascence_ and bring your potions bag with you."

"Now?" you ask, hating that your stomach is in knots and your hoarse voice cracks on the word. And that your Mark is ominously silent.

The house-elf nods vigourously, nearly upsetting his hats. "Yes. Harry Potter is wanting Professor Snape right now."

"Tell Him I will be there in a moment."

A flash and a pop then Dobby is gone. Quickly, as to avoid hesitating or reflecting upon what He might be doing, what He might wish to do, how much blood and screaming and _justice_ it might entail...you hold your mind together by force of will alone and retrieve your potions kit from the wall safe. You inspect the contents, then add a few fresher vials--restoratives, blood replacements, bone supplements--to the collection within. Healing potions, for that bastard! Eyes narrowed, you add a small case of colourless, odourless poisons and smile; He was never much for potions after all. Then, you are on your way.

Unsurprisingly, Bulstrode and Zabini are waiting outside your door. They are both dressed in clean robes--without bloodstains--and Bulstrode has at least got her hand seen to.

"_Renascence_?" Zabini asks.

You nod and set off down the hallway, the two of them trailing behind. Thankfully, there are no portraits on the walls to comment on your haste or your carefully bland expression.

"Potter had better treat him right, that's all I've got to say," you hear Bulstrode mutter. "Otherwise, I won't be responsible for what happens next."

Zabini murmurs his assent.

In theory, you should reprimand them, but the fire of her words thaws the ice that has been gathering behind your heart: whatever the future that Black has foreseen, at least you will not face it alone.

10.

"As far as I can tell, nearly every Death Eater cell has been mobilised, though towards what purpose--or purposes, I don't yet know. Everyone is being exceptionally cagey," you told the Order late one evening in March. "The equinox coincides with a new moon this year. I suspect that factors into his plans, though I am not yet certain how."

Head cocked to one side, like a damned dog, Black drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, then stood abruptly and began to pace and mumble to himself like a lunatic.

"What about you, Snape?" Mad-Eye Moody glared at you, magical blue eye spinning in its socket. Damned irritating bastard, positively obnoxious prosthesis; made your fingers itch to poke it out and crush it underfoot.

"My previous orders still stand," you said ignoring his hostility. "Continue to spy on the Order and on Dumbledore. Provide the Dark Lord with potions and magical research expertise. And discover the remaining part of the prophecy."

"Damned good thing that none of us here know that last little bit, eh?" Mundungus said. A round of chuckles swept the room.

You carefully did not reply, allowing the discussion to move on to other things. Analysis of other operatives reports, for instance. Then the Ministry's repressive reactions to Voldemort's latest strikes: the suspension of various laws, curfews in magical villages, expanded powers for Aurors, and the like. The public's reaction: outrage, fear and suspicion, the hoarding of goods and denial of services to certain parts of the magical population. And finally, new measures taken at Hogwarts to ensure the safety of the students and, more importantly, Harry Potter.

All in all, nothing much was accomplished, as usual. No wonder the Order had nearly lost the war, last time round.

But Black cornered you that evening after the meeting and before you could make your escape. Since the advent of his new talents, his hostility towards you had mysteriously abated; he'd actually thanked you for training his godson. And like Lupin, had taken, most annoyingly, to calling you by your given name. Tonight, his manner was peculiar. Intense and urgent, yet strangely dreamy, like that Lovegood twit who was friends with Potter.

"Is he ready yet, Severus?" he asked.

"Is who ready for what, Black?"

"You know exactly what I mean," he said, an echo of the old Sirius Black evident in his tone.

Too tired for games, you shook your head. "Can he ever truly be ready enough?"

Black looked at you, then _through_ you, then at you once more. The process was unnerving. "He had better be, Severus. Because it's coming. And soon."

"The equinox?"

"And the new moon," he said. "You've said yourself that Voldemort has been raising blood power from Muggles this past year; I can feel their deaths and taste the changes in his magic with each one he consumes. Your family tree is as Dark as mine, Severus, and I know you've done the research. What can you do with a pure-blooded virgin on the eve of the equinox during a new moon?"

It seemed as if all the air had been sucked out of the room. "Fortunately, Potter is neither," you managed.

"No," Black agreed. "But Ron Weasley is."

###

"I am _not_!" Weasley said, sitting bolt upright in his chair and blushing a furious crimson. He carefully did not look at either Albus, Harry, or Black-as-dog.

You steepled your fingers and sneered. "Your brave boasts to your fellows to the contrary, Mr Weasley, you are, in fact, a virgin."

"And likely to stay that way for a while yet," Harry put in snidely, "once Hermione finds out what you've been saying."

Weasley looked mutinous. "Just because you and Malfoy have been--"

"Enough, Mr Weasley," Dumbledore interrupted. "This is not a game. Due to your _entirely age-appropriate sexual status_," he gave Harry, and then you, a piercing look, "as well as your known friendship with Harry, you are an especially desirable target for Voldemort. We have excellent intelligence," he glanced at Black, "to suggest that an attempt will be made on your life."

"Well, I could always just..." Weasley began hopefully.

"Absolutely not," Dumbledore snapped. "What you will do is be alert, cautious. You will be accompanied to and from your classes with an adult. You will not go _anywhere_ alone. And you will not under any circumstances, leave Hogwarts grounds until after the equinox. Is that clear?"

"But sir--"

"Don't be an idiot, Weasley," you cut in. "Do you truly wish to be stripped naked, bound to a plinth, have your blood drained and drunk by the Dark Lord before having your heart cut out of your chest, whilst still beating, and then eaten piece by steaming piece by the members of his assembly?"

Weasley turned a delicate shade of green.

"Severus." Dumbledore glared over the tops of his glasses. "I believe he fully understands the seriousness of this situation. Don't you, Mr Weasley?"

He gulped and nodded slowly.

Nonetheless, Dumbledore belaboured the point a while longer, taking the opportunity to lecture both of them--Harry in particular--on their 'most disappointing lack of restraint in matters pertaining to appropriate sexual conduct'. Mention of notifying Weasley's mother had terrified the boy into making all sorts of wild promises, but Harry's contrition was an utter sham; his eyes were dark with resentment, his limbs stiff with defiance. When Dumbledore deemed them both suitably chastised, he allowed them to return to their classes.

"Buck up, mate," Harry said, poking his friend in the ribs as they walked out the door. "I'm sure Hermione will kill you long before Voldemort gets the chance."

Black's ears pricked up at that; he growled and bared his teeth.

"Something to look forward to," Weasley said glumly, closing the door behind him. Out in the corridor, you heard an outraged feline yowl and a subsequent curse, "Damned cat!" Since Minerva was still in class, the likely culprit was Mrs. Norris.

Dumbledore's lips quirked in a smile; he graciously forbore to take any points from Gryffindor.

Once they'd departed, he turned his disapproving gaze on you and drew a deep breath, no doubt to launch into some tedious moral diatribe.

Black pre-empted him--thankfully--by becoming human again. "Thank you for trying, Albus. But there are some things that must happen in order to others to come to be."

You nearly rolled your eyes; typical Seer double-speak.

Dumbledore shook his head. "I don't accept that, Sirius. You are new to your powers, your Sight may be imperfect. Or our interpretation may be mistaken."

You fought not to be gob-smacked. Was Dumbledore that far gone in denial? Black was a right pain in the arse, but he was the genuine article.

Black merely sighed. "Perhaps," he said, "I hope you're right." Though it was obvious that he didn't believe it. "You will be there for him, Severus, won't you?" he said, turning to you. "When the time comes?"

You shrugged, irritated. Hadn't you always been? "I suspect that you would know best, Black, if I will ultimately 'be there' for Potter."

Although he didn't reply, a ghost of a smile touched his lips.

###

Historians are wont to fixate on dramatic events to mark the 'opening salvo' or denouement of whatever 'historically significant' period they wish to pontificate upon.

Ron Weasley's death was such an event.

And such a senseless death it was, though the words 'heroic sacrifice,' and 'gallant,' and 'chivalrous,' were bandied about liberally afterwards.

On March twentieth, at 11:43 PM, the Mark burned black. You cut short Harry's Occlumency lesson and went to collect the potions Voldemort had demanded that you make. The _Genus Cruors,_ to combine with Weasley's 'offering:' blood from a pure-blooded virgin sacrifice being far more potent and life-sustaining than that of a unicorn.

"No, this is not happening," Harry said. The scar on his forehead was livid, but he ignored it to grab your throbbing forearm. "Ron was supposed to be _safe_ here. He should be sleeping, studying, playing chess in the common room, trying to make up with Hermione. How could that bastard have got him in the castle? How is that possible?"

You shook him off and continued to pack your potions case. "Go to Dumbledore. Now. You know the password. Tell him that I believe that Weasley has been taken. Have him activate the tracking spell, and then contact Black." You paused as a thought struck you. "And don't do anything stupid, Potter, do you hear me? Leave this to us. Do not attempt to cajole, barter, or otherwise coerce anyone into--"

"What good is all this damned training if I never get to use it, tell me that, Severus? All we do is sit around waiting for bloody _Tom_ to make a bloody move. When are we going to bring the fight to him?"

Damned good question. "Now is not the time. Go and inform Dumbledore," you scooped his invisibility cloak off the chair and thrust it at him. "Time is of the essence."

Once he'd left, you Firecalled Dumbledore yourself, in case the boy took it into his head to do something rash, then quickly set off through the dungeons and across the castle grounds to the Apparition point.

Apparation was, of course, quite impossible within the castle grounds, Portkeys--legal or otherwise--could operate under certain circumstances. Which was how Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger both came be standing, back-to-back, wands out, at the centre of a ring of robed and masked Death Eaters in a remote field in Cornwall.

The target had been Weasley; Granger was an unexpected bonus.

"_Expelliarmus!_" Voldemort shouted. The wands jerked from their hands and smacked into his pallid palm. "Well, now. Mr Weasley and Miss Granger, Harry Potter's closest friends. How convenient. Two for the price of one."

Weasley was clearly terrified, but put up a brave front. "For all the good it will do you. Dumbledore is probably right behind us."

"Ron, hush," Granger said urgently, tugging on his arm. "What do you want with us?"

Absurd question, but an excellent tactic. Playing for time never hurt. You tucked your hands into your sleeves and waited. The odds were such that, alone, you could accomplish nothing but your own death, as well as theirs. The tracking spell would _have_ to work, despite the distortion of the Portkey slip-stream; Dumbledore would _have_ to locate them in time. Otherwise, Weasley and Granger were dead, and far more than the furnishings in the Gryffindor common room would suffer for it.

"I want nothing at all with you, Mudblood, except your death. Ronald Bilius Weasley, on the other hand, will be especially useful in..." Voldemort lazily glanced at his pocket watch, "approximately ten minutes. Wormtail, Goyle, seize them!"

The two wizards broke out of the circle, grabbed Weasley and Granger, and pulled them apart. To their credit, neither went quietly.

Deprived of her wand, Granger turned into a snarling, spitting hell-cat with a wicked right hook. "Let go of me, you traitor!" she screamed at Pettigrew, battering him with both fists and feet. "The Potters _trusted_ you, they put their _faith_ in you and you betrayed them, your best friends! You lived for twelve years as a rat, cut off your own hand, for what?" She jerked her chin at Voldemort. "For that...that _monstrosity?_"

"Get your bloody hands off her, _Scabbers!_" Weasley shouted, struggling in Goyle's meaty grip. He landed a few punches of his own but Goyle--all twenty-odd stone of him--was quite unimpressed. He casually backhanded Weasley; blood burst from the boy's split lip.

"Carefully," Voldemort chided. "I need him alive. And Wormtail, do us all a favour and kill the witch, lest her screeching burst our ear drums."

The moment was at hand. You tensed, but could do nothing; where the hell was Dumbledore?

Pettigrew gripped her tightly round the throat with his magical hand. She scrabbled at the slick metal hand, eyes bulging, her lips rapidly turning blue, but to no avail. He put his wand to her temple. "_Avada Ke--_"

"No!" Weasley shouted, "no!" and jerked himself free, clearly intent on attacking Pettigrew or pushing Granger out of the way. But Goyle was upon him in an instant; they went down in the mud in a tangle of thrashing limbs.

Before Pettigrew could mouth the final syllables, an ominous _crack_ echoed across the clearing.

Weasley's body went limp.

The silence within the circle was absolute.

Your breath caught in your throat and suddenly, you longed for the old days, back when Sirius Black was arrogant, conceited, hex-happy, and ever-so consistently _wrong._

Shocked, Pettigrew held his position while Granger's struggles grew feeble.

"Fool! Idiot!" Voldemort shrieked, striding towards Goyle, wand drawn. "I needed him _alive,_ damn you!"

Goyle looked up, his eyes flat with horror and despair.

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

Two dead wizards lay at Granger's weakly kicking feet.

Moments later, the air snapped and crackled. Dumbledore appeared, wand blazing, and the clearing was suddenly packed with Aurors.

You wasted no time in Apparating the hell away. You were partly responsible for Weasley's death. Potter would likely hex you with something dire and painful, but he would still need someone to tell him the truth, to 'be there' for him, as Black put it.

Especially since these days, Dumbledore seemed incapable of doing either.

###

Harry gently tucked Granger's bandaged hand under the blanket where she lay pale and unmoving. Despite Poppy's treatments, her throat was still ringed with purple bruises.

Weasley's body had been transported directly from the the field in Cornwall to the Ministry for investigation.

Despite the astonishing quantity of furnishings, instruments, and glassware he'd destroyed in Dumbledore's office, Harry had not been granted leave to go and bid farewell to his friend. Or to speak with Weasley's parents.

He'd been remarkably restrained towards you, all things considered, casting only a few choice hexes and aspersions on your parentage, before Black had intervened. Now, however, his mindless rage seemed to have transmuted into a steel-flavoured silence that was far more troubling.

Your exhausted senses went on alert; _something_ was afoot.

Harry turned from the bedside and went to stand beside the window of Granger's private room. "That's it," he said. "I've had it. Enough is enough." His words were softly spoken but held an undeniable threat.

You straightened away from the wall and glanced over at Black. His eerie calm sent a prickle down your spine. "Explain yourself, Potter."

"Just that," he replied, far too mildly, turning to look at you. "I have had enough. I won't stand by anymore and wait and _hide_ while Voldemort picks off all the people I love, one by one."

Worse yet, that _something_ had already been decided.

"What do you plan to do?" Black asked, though it was clear that he already suspected--or knew--the answer.

"I'm leaving," Harry said.

You nearly bit through your tongue. "Leaving?" Vulnerable, half-trained! Had grief driven him insane? "What ridiculous nonsense is this? And where do you propose to go?" You unleashed your most virulent sneer. "Alone, to seek out Voldemort and confront him directly?"

"No one is going anywhere," Draco said quietly, entering the room without knocking, then warding it against further intrusion. "At least not without me." He dropped two fully laden packs on the floor at his feet.

You could do nothing but stare in horror. "Draco Vespasian Malfoy, have you entirely lost your mind?" Or perhaps teen-aged lust--masquerading as love--had rotted his brain.

Narcissa would flay you alive!

His grey eyes met yours without flinching. You could read his fear but there was no denying his resolve; never before had he seemed so unlike his father. "My choice, Severus, remember? My choice, my path."

Something twinged behind your breastbone; both of them, two of your...your finest apprentices. Leaving.

The implications were too staggering to comprehend, especially after a night spent handling the fallout from the debacle at Cornwall. Only utter exhaustion could have possibly prompted you to appeal to Sirius Black for help. "Surely you aren't condoning this lunacy, as well?"

He rose from the bedside chair and nodded. "What will be, will be, Severus," he said quietly. "And they won't be alone. I will be with them."

"You _Foresaw_ this?" your voice rose in outrage. "Does Dumbledore know?" The sheer, unadulterated idiocy of it all! Black, an irresponsible git of a man who once blithely romped through the countryside as a dog in the company of a stag, a rat, and a _feral werewolf_, now entrusted with the welfare of two impulsive, hormonal adolescents? It was a large-scale disaster waiting to happen!

Black shook his head. "No one knows except for those of us in this room."

"Severus," Harry said, touching your sleeve. "You and I both know what the prophecy says. You know what I have to do to end this. Kill him, before he kills me, before he kills anyone else." He left unspoken: 'And die regardless.'

"Harry." Urgently, you closed your hand over his. He was clearly firm in his decision, nonetheless, you had to try. "The Dark Lord has had decades of training, the Dark Arts, ancient and deadly magicks, and the strength and force of will to use them. His followers are knowledgeable, crafty, driven by lust for power, glory, domination. They are utterly ruthless."

Harry looked decades older than his seventeen years. "I know that, I do." His lips quirked for a moment. "After all, you were one of them. But," his expression became serious again, "you've taught me well, Severus, and I have to try. I _have to._"

And die in the attempt, condemning you all to a life of domination by a madman.

Unless...you inhaled sharply. Unless Black--_the power the Dark Lord knew not_\--had discovered some subtle loophole in the prophecy? He could See the future and the past, destroy Dementors, commune with the dead, command ghosts. What other powers might he possess that could tip the balance of the incipient war?

You looked over at Black but he was standing at Granger's side, touching her hand; his long scraggly hair obscured his face. Convenient.

When he turned and came to stand with Harry and Draco, the two boys--no, the two _young, foolishly brave wizards_ shouldered their packs and each drew their wands.

It was settled, then. They'd chosen their course without your assistance or counsel: thanks for the training and fare thee well.

Something painful welled up in your chest; you ruthlessly crushed it back down.

"I take it that you plan to leave me behind to try explain the disappearance of three key players in Dumbledore's little drama?" You didn't hide your bitterness.

"We can _Obliviate_ you," Draco offered.

"Not on your life! I have no intention of ending up like Lockhart. I'd like all my memories--pleasant or otherwise--completely intact, thank you all the same."

"You don't trust my spell casting?" Draco sounded genuinely hurt.

Oh, for Merlin's sake!

But surprisingly, Black gestured a negative. "No Obliviation. It is imperative that Dumbledore understand why we have left. What we intend to do."

His certainty gave you a peculiar sense of hope.

"More importantly," he continued, staring _through_ you again, "We will need for _you_ to understand, Severus, when the proper time comes. Beware the traitor close at hand, who has already succeeded once, on two feet and four. There is no more deadly poison than two parts envy combined with one part spite."

That last made your mouth go dry.

_A traitor close at hand,_ but who? "Fine, then," you snapped, shaken by his words. You forced yourself to deliberately turn your back on the lot of them and grasp the door knob. "I will now walk out this door. With every intention of informing Dumbledore of this insane plan of yours." You opened the door and braced for impact. "But for the love of Merlin, just make sure that whatever you use doesn't--"

There was a flash of light at the corner of your eye, a thud against your back, and then you were falling into darkness. --hurt too much...

###

When he returned from his meetings at the Ministry to find Harry, Draco, and Black gone, Dumbledore was not amused.

Given that Potter's hex had landed you in your own private room in the hospital wing, you were not especially amused either.

"What were you thinking, Severus? Letting them just walk out of here?"

"I didn't _let_ them do anything. It was three on one. They jumped me. Hexed me in the back, the traitorous bastards."

"May I remind you that one of those 'bastards' is your own godson?"

You leaned back against the pillow, crossed your arms, and glowered. "I rest my case." Before Dumbledore could reply, you changed the subject. "Before he hexed me unconscious, Black gave us a warning."

Apparently willing to be diverted, Dumbledore listened closely as you repeated Black's warning, word for word.

"Hm," he said, stroking his beard. "'Four feet and two,' an animagus, perhaps? Could young Weasley's death be his...or her first success? And 'close at hand'...close in blood or in physical proximity?"

"What difference does it make? One of _his_ agents got close enough to Weasley to plant a Portkey on him, that much was obvious. Weasley is dead, Black was right. Potter, Draco, and Black are gone, and by this evening--if it hasn't already occurred--the Dark Lord will know. What do you propose to do about it?"

Albus sighed, then rose from his conjured chair and went to stand at the window. The weak sunlight tinted his beard gold and caught the metallic threads woven through his robes. He stood in silence for a long while, staring at the courtyard and the children playing below. Despite the straightness of his spine and the majesty of his purple robes, he seemed oddly fragile and lost.

"What can we do, Severus?" he said, sounding exhausted. "Obviously, they've been planning this departure for some time. And felt no need to consult with either of us, I might add." Was that disappointment or sadness in his voice? "Both Harry and Draco have reached their majorities, and neither were members of the Order. I have no jurisdiction over either of them." He walked slowly back to his chair and sat down. "That Sirius offered no objection suggests that he has Foreseen whatever Harry plans to do, and that he approves."

"So, what, we do nothing?" You sat up abruptly, ignoring the multicoloured spots before your eyes. "We merrily go along as if the one wizard prophesied to defeat the Dark Lord hasn't vanished?"

"If you have any constructive suggestions, Severus, I would certainly like to hear them," Albus said with a mild glare.

Unimpressed, you sniffed. "Fine. I think we should inform the Ministry immediately, before some idiot at the Prophet gets a hold of the news. Emphasise the 'planned' nature of their departure. Be vague yet firm; you've made an art form of that tactic. Scare Fudge a bit with some dire hints about the prophecy to keep him quiet, but leave him with enough hope to blather about so that he doesn't cause a panic."

The somewhat lost expression faded from Albus's face and the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. "A sound plan," he said. "And in Sirius's absence, perhaps Minerva can give us some insight into the identity of our spy, determine if there are any unregistered animagi within the castle."

Relieved, you sank back into the pillows again. Albus only liked to think he had all the answers. _And all of you like to hope that he does!_ a little voice reminded you. "The only question remains what to tell the students. There are those in Slytherin who believe that Draco is wholly in alignment with his father."

Albus looked thoughtful. "What of Lucius? Does he believe as well?"

"Draco is a very convincing liar and Lucius is an abysmal Occlumens."

"So. Speak with Narcissa later this afternoon. Let her know that he is safe, and that we will tell the students that she has called her son home."

You did _not_ look forward to having that conversation.

"Five parents have already pulled their children out of school in the past year," Albus continued. "The story is plausible and will serve to keep Draco's cover intact, should his plans require it. I will also make a few remarks to the Prophet, make it clear that Draco's disappearance is in no way connected to Harry's."

"Ha. The irresponsible twits at that tawdry rag will speculate anyway."

"All sorts of rumours are bound to circulate, regardless. But until we get some unambiguous cue from Harry, Draco, or Sirius about their plans--or from Voldemort's reaction--we stand firm with this story, and preserve both interpretations."

"Better include Granger in all this," you warned. "No accounting what she's liable to say--or do--once she regains consciousness. Poppy can't keep her asleep forever."

"Indeed," he stood and vanished his chair decisively. "Perhaps she can also shed some light on how she and Mr Weasley came into the possession of the Portkey."

After he had gone, you lay back against the pillows and closed your eyes. Try as you might, however, you couldn't banish the gnawing worry nor the bitterness you felt at having been left behind to wait, helplessly, for the 'proper time' to arrive.

###

Granger, who was apparently still quite distraught, told him nothing you didn't already know.

But the deaths of Argus Filch and Mrs. Norris, of poison, seven days following Miss Granger's release from hospital, and a mere twelve hours after she reported for one of her infrequent detentions, spoke volumes.

As did her brisk, unapologetic statement upon having been found out: "It had to be done. It's not as if any of you were taking care of the problem. I waited an entire week for you to figure it out, after all."

11.

Not far from your quarters, you are set upon by the bushy-haired menace.

"Professor Snape," she says, "I need to speak with you."

Bulstrode steps in front of you, wand raised. "Want me to get rid of her, Professor?" She sounds delighted by the prospect.

The two witches eye one another warily. In theory, duelling is forbidden in Taynton Hall, especially within the residences. But with so many near-enemies and uneasy allies under one roof, 'incidents' have been known to occur.

Granger frowns but steps back a pace. "I'll only need one minute of your time."

One minute, indeed! As if Granger could ever say anything in one minute that might be blathered on about ad nauseam for hours. Nonetheless, you gesture to Bulstrode to back off; it's not as if you are in much of a rush to get to _Renascence_ anyway. "Very well. What do you want?"

"I want you to stop Harry."

You stifle a laugh. Neither Zabini nor Bulstrode bother. They let loose with an assortment of chuckles and guffaws. "As we both know, Miss Granger," you say, "Potter does as he wills."

"But he'll listen to you," she insists, though the words seem to stick in her throat.

You smile. "Ah. So Black told you to piss off too, eh?"

She glowers but doesn't deny your claim. "Don't you get it, Snape? Don't you get what's going on here?"

"No, Miss Granger. I believe that it is _you_ who do not 'get it.'" She has grown taller over the years but you are still able to sneer down at her quite nicely. "With Voldemort and Dumbledore dead, Harry Potter is the single most powerful wizard living."

Her lip curls. "I am well aware of that fact. What's your point?"

"My point is that this is not the Muggle world, Miss Granger, where rule-by-law is the fairy tale told by the powerful and believed in by the weak." You speak slowly, as if lecturing a dim-witted First Year. "The wizarding world acknowledges rule-by-power and Harry Potter has that power. He _is_ that power. Even Shacklebolt recognises this."

"That doesn't mean that you can't influence him, Snape," she insists. "He trusts you, he _loves_ you, for God's sake. You could convince him to give Lucius back. To let the Ministry handle this."

"What makes you think that he'd want to, Granger?" Zabini says blandly. "Like so many of us," his voice turns a bit snide, "Professor Snape has a lot of 'unpleasant history' with Lucius Malfoy, if you recall."

That brings her up short. "Don't any of you realise what's at stake here?"

Bulstrode rolls her eyes. "Is this another one of your speeches about how we all need to 'Save Harry From Himself'? If he needs saying from anyone it's you, Granger, and your never-ending supply of sanctimonious shite!" she says, jabbing her finger at Granger.

Granger boldly swats the finger aside. "Just because you _have_ the power doesn't mean you should use it."

"And it was just fine when you used it, eh?" Zabini says. "You did a damn fine job of 'eliminating' anyone who got in your way."

"Yes," she hisses. "And it was _wrong._ I see that now."

Zabini snorts. "Convenient timing."

But she is undeterred. "I know _personally_ how easy it is to slip, bit by bit into thinking that whatever you want is justified. Not because it is, but because you want it to be. Because you want to get them before they get you, because you want them to...to _suffer_ because of what they've done." Her voice is shaking and her eyes glitter with unshed tears. "Don't you all see? If Harry kills Malfoy he'll have become what he set out to destroy. Malfoy will have won. Voldemort will have won!"

Her words crack through your mind like a flash of lightning: _Malfoy will have won._

Your breath snags in your throat.

All that you have now--your home; your work; the status and acclaim; the men and women, like Millicent and Blaise, who placed their lives and their faith in your bloodied hands; everything, even _Him_\--you have because you screamed and you bled, and even though you were beaten, broken and utterly without hope, you refused to yield.

And Lucius, with his money and manners, his charm and his smooth, smooth words, would seek to steal that from you, 'unpleasant history' with Him or no.

Unbidden, your fury and your magic begins to rise. Zabini and Bulstrode recognise the signs. Wands drawn, they take one step closer to you in response.

Granger is heedless of the danger. "Please, Professor," she says. "Please think about what I've said."

But, you are what you are. Broken-winged crow or no, you _will_ fight, with your last breath if necessary. Lucius's prize will not come easily, if at all.

"We done here, Professor?" Zabini sounds bored.

You nod shortly. Oh yes, your business here is concluded and you have an urgent appointment to keep. "Thank you, Miss Granger," you say, obviously surprising her, "for reminding me exactly what is at stake."

"So, you mean you'll--" she begins, eyes wide with hope.

You snarl, step around her, and swiftly continue on your way, all the while hoping you haven't delayed too long.

"Crazy bitch," Bulstrode mutters, off to your left. "As if you'd ever let Malfoy get away with what he's done."

"Oh yeah," Zabini says, "You'll make him suffer, won't you, Professor. For us."

From his satisfied grunt you can tell that he has seen your feral grin.

12.

Two months--and far too many fruitless 'strategy sessions' with the Order and unpleasant 'personal meetings' with the Dark Lord--after his disappearance, Harry Potter's strategy became abundantly clear.

One morning in late May, three suspected Death Eaters were discovered dead in their beds, the image of an enormous red and gold phoenix, wings spread, hovering above their homes.

"Dark Lord's Henchmen Slain in Their Beds!" The pages of the Prophet proclaimed, with the subtitle: "Does He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named have competition? Is the Phoenix Mark the work of an even darker Dark Wizard?"

"Vigilante justice!" Fudge shrieked, tumbling out of Dumbledore's Floo in a cloud of soot. "Order of the Phoenix. Never strike the first blow. You've got a lot of explaining to do, Albus Dumbledore!" He proceeded to yell at the Headmaster for a good two hours.

The Dark Lord was far less restrained. "You have failed me, Severus. Three of our allies are dead and you come to me empty-handed, with absurd claims that Dumbledore is not responsible. Nor can you tell me where Harry Potter has gone nor why. _Crucio!_"

And so it went, month after gruelling month.

Death Eaters and their sympathisers turned up dead, permanently Obliviated, or simply went 'missing,' with the Phoenix Mark blazing above their homes. Any children present were spared and temporarily Obliviated, as were those spouses who were neutral. Curiously, only those structures housing Dark Artefacts were razed to the ground.

The few survivors who'd been left with intact memories told strange and conflicting tales: One wizard, two, no three, with a Grim! Long dark hair, short hair, hair white as a ghost. They _were_ ghosts, with blazing swords! No, they _led_ an army of ghosts, and demons, and zombies! And so forth.

The Dark Lord countered with increased recruiting, especially of Dark Creatures and Squibs--to whom he promised personal rights and magical power. He put a price on Potter's head: 10,000 Galleons, and attacked Hogwarts, forcing Dumbledore to suspend classes and attempt to close the school. Numerous parents, especially those who believed that Dumbledore was the 'force' behind the Phoenix Mark--after all, didn't he have a phoenix as a familiar?--stormed the offices of the Board of Governors, and forced them to keep Hogwarts open as a sanctuary.

Though Albus was privately outraged that Potter had co-opted his symbol for 'ethically dubious purposes,' publicly he was forced to confirm nothing and deny nothing.

Voldemort intensified his strikes upon the Ministry, and upon the homes and businesses of those who had opposed him openly in the past or the present. Despite the counter-intelligence you, and a few of your apprentices who'd taken the Mark managed to gather, there were many casualties. Arthur and Bill Weasley among them, both wizards struck down in broad daylight in Diagon Alley, no witnesses.

You cornered that particular incident's architect after one of the Dark Lord's increasingly rare general gatherings. "I wouldn't gloat too much, Lucius," you said, restraining the urge to snap his long, slender neck. "You haven't convinced all of us that your darling son isn't helping Potter, rather than off on some nebulous 'mission' or acting on your orders."

He whirled on you, raising one silver brow. "Attend to your own concerns, Severus. If there is a spy amongst us, the Dark Lord will look to you first."

"He has looked. Repeatedly. And found nothing. I wonder why that might be? I wonder what I might discover if I 'questioned' a few of your son's former classmates."

"I suggest that you don't," he said, eyes narrowed, "lest you find yourself the accidental victim of some dreadful explosion in your lab."

As threats went, it was weak, but it hinted at another active sympathiser within the school. Given her previous success, you set Granger the task of uncovering him, or them.

Three Hufflepuffs, two Ravenclaws, a Gryffindor, and six Slytherins were discovered in various compromising positions--consuming or distributing illicit potions, casting Dark spells, for example--that, conveniently, necessitated expulsion. Whatever her other faults, Granger was nothing if not efficient in these matters, much to Minerva's disappointment and displeasure.

The press persistently fanned the flames of hysteria ("Another Phoenix Mark sighting, this time over the Ministry!"), outrage ("The Under-secretary to the Department of Mysteries, who couldn't possibly be working for You-Know-Who, was discovered wandering about his office naked and unable to remember his own name."), and more frequently: 'Fudge is Useless, Thank Merlin Someone Is Doing Something!'

The general wizarding population was torn: hopeful that this newly emergent power could contain or neutralise Voldemort, but fearful that the devil they didn't know would prove to be far worse than the devil they did.

Knowing the three wizards responsible for the chaos and carnage, you understood the conflicting sentiments all too well, though you were not in the least surprised by their brand of 'justice.'

"I don't like this, Severus," Minerva said late one evening, when 12 Grimmauld Place was empty save the two of you. Though the house had fallen into disrepair after Lupin's death, Black's departure, and Molly Weasley's grief, the Order still used it as a secure meeting place. "These murders, one after the next. This isn't the Harry that I know." It wasn't mere squeamishness that made her frown; Minerva had been an Unspeakable before Voldemort's first rise.

You thought back on the formless rage you'd seen in his mind, the memory of days and nights, starving, locked in a cupboard, without light and without hope. "I'd say then, Minerva, that you don't know Harry Potter half so well as you think you do."

Her expression was haunted. "That's precisely what I'm afraid of," she said.

###

As the 'Phoenix Incidents' became more frequent and geographically dispersed--Karkaroff, for instance, turned up dead in Prague--it became clear to members of the Order that Harry, Draco, and Black were not acting alone.

It was Potter's old nemesis, Rita Skeeter, who finally publicly connected the dots, linking the disappearances of Harry and Draco together. With a ruthless bit of blackmail, she pried loose the secret of Black's existence, of Harry's deprived childhood, she hinted at Draco's possible loyalties, and the possibility of spies and counter-spies within Sltherin House.

Subsequently, you took great care never to directly question your former apprentices if you encountered them on the street.

Nonetheless, they were still children; they made mistakes.

Those gatherings caused you the most pain. To witness the torture of those who'd been in your care, to participate in their torture, their deaths...the men and women who'd placed their trust in you, who'd followed your path, but who'd made some misstep along the way...to watch their parents and siblings and relatives plead for their lives and to be able to do _nothing._

Like Harry, you longed to say, "Enough is enough!" and do _something,_ other than listen, report, and give counsel, and wait impotently until, in Black's words, the _proper time_ arrived.

At midnight, on December 21, it finally did.

While concocting yet another batch of poison for the Dark Lord, an unfamiliar owl swooped into your laboratory, deposited a note upon the bookshelf, then swept out again.

You read:

> _S--_
> 
> What will happen must happen. Be ready.
> 
> \--H

Then the note burst into flames.

_Ready for what?_ you wondered, and _Exactly _what_ will happen?_

But this time, rather than vex you, the mystery left you strangely calm and alert; some nameless _thing_ inside you unclenched and settled. Neither your ignorance of the plan, nor the fact that Black, rather than Dumbledore, was its architect mattered then.

Whatever was coming, at least the moment for you to act was nearly at hand.

13.

You encounter Black next. Rather than lurking outside _Renascence,_ as you expected, he is lounging, barefoot, on the window seat at the top of the stairs.

"You shouldn't scowl so much, Severus. Your face might freeze like that one day."

Bulstrode and Zabini tense beside you, but they say nothing; post-Veil Black has always made their hair stand on end.

"Is that a prophecy, Black, or merely another of your feeble attempts at humor?"

He smiles broadly. Azkaban ravaged his own once-handsome features, but his jaunt beyond the Veil imbued him with an inexplicable personal magnetism. It takes effort not to smile in return. "You wouldn't know a joke if it bit you on the arse," he says. "But never mind that. I take it from your...pleasant expression that Hermione caught up with you."

"One might say," you snarl.

He sits upright and crosses his legs, tailor-style. "Smart witch, but no sense of balance. It's always either-or with her now, ever since Minerva stopped speaking to her. Nice robes, by the way. Rare to see you in anything other than black."

Your frown deepens as you try to follow his blather; he makes even less sense than usual. "What at you talking about? Earlier, you claimed that she would be quite pleased with His decision regarding Malfoy. Make up your mind."

Black's grin turns sly. "And how often is it that what we _say_ we want is what we _truly_ want?"

"Enough with the cryptic clap-trap, Black! Either say what you mean or keep your bloody prophecies to yourself."

His body goes completely still; he looks at, and then _through_ you. You resist the urge to flinch. "Don't make assumptions, Severus," he says quietly. "And remember, I said you would be pleased as well."

When no more of his babble is forthcoming, you turn on your heel and continue down the corridor towards _Renascence,_ your robes billowing out behind you.

Balance be damned!

You will not allow Granger's absurd desire for peace and love and good will towards all to come to pass. Certainly not without a nasty fight.

14.

Over the months, the Dark Lord's inner circle had thinned substantially.

Potter had killed quite a few; Voldemort himself had done away with several others during fits of pique or outrage over suspected treachery; and Rookwood and Jugson had slain one another in an argument over the spoils from a raid on the Department of Magical Artefacts. Only the most vicious, wily, paranoid, obsequious, or luckiest of Death Eaters remained: Bellatrix, Rudolophus, Rastaban, Dolohov, Lucius, Avery, Macnair, Pettigrew, Crabbe, and you.

It was a dangerous brew. An unstable mixture of enmity, envy, and fanaticism, needing only the most simple of substances to catalyze it.

Then, Narcissa fled to the continent.

Skeeter published an interview with someone who could positively identify the man who cast the Phoenix Mark above a residence in Leeds as Draco Mafoy.

The full weight of the Dark Lord's suspicion and paranoia fell upon Lucius.

And the entire cauldron boiled over; your moment had come.

On Christmas eve, the Mark burned. You hurried out of the dungeons to the Apparation point to make you way to the Dark Lord's current headquarters in Yorkshire, a crumbling mansion more grim than Black's old house.

You followed the screams down into the warren of damp stone rooms far below ground level. A narrow corridor led to the circular chamber that the Dark Lord favored for his 'interrogations.' The cloak and mask were not necessary; no one ever left these sessions alive.

"Ah," Voldemort said with relish. "Severus is here, we may begin."

You had to force yourself to inhale, then exhale, then inhale again.

Near the rusted metal drain, at the center of the wide sloping floor, knelt Harry and Draco. They were wearing charmed leather collars and bound with magical chains that were staked to the floor. Their clothing and skin were torn and bloodied. Draco's left arm was clearly broken. The end of the bone poked nearly through the skin of his forearm; his face was pale and sweaty. Harry was in slightly better condition. His hair was spiky with wet blood, he was missing at least two teeth, and one of his eyes had swelled shut.

How in hell had that bastard Black allowed this come to pass? And what aid could you possibly offer without getting all of you killed?

"Snape!" Harry yelled, struggling against his bonds. "You lying son of a bitch! I should have known you'd be here. I told Dumbledore not to trust you!"

With deliberate calm, you ignored him. "I apologize for my tardiness, my lord," you said. "Dumbledore does so love the sound of his own voice sometimes, the old fool."

Voldemort was in an exceptionally good mood. Rather than casting a _Cruciatus,_ he waved his hand negligently. "Not to worry," he said. "Rastaban and Walden only just arrived with this evening's entertainment." He gestured towards Harry and Draco. "Miss Skeeter was so kind as to provide us with access to Potter and Malfoy's whereabouts. A pity she didn't live to collect the reward."

You forced yourself to laugh along with the others. Even Lucius, who was milk pale and sweating despite his hearty grin.

"May I sample them both, Master," Bellatrix said with a hair-raising giggle. "Just a tiny taste. Please?"

"Patience, my dear. First, I have a few questions for Mr Potter." He lazily pointed his wand in Harry's direction.

"Why not just ask _him._" Harry jerked his chin towards you. "The prick probably knows more than I do about Dumbledore's plans."

The Dark Lord's high-pitched laugh send chills down your spine. "Good try, boy, but I know it is _you_ who are behind the Phoenix Marks. I know it is _you_ who murdered my soldiers in their beds."

"They got what they deserved."

The Dark Lord crooked his finger and suddenly, Harry began gasping, scrabbling at the collar as it tightened around his throat. Voldemort smiled revealing pointed white teeth. "And so shall you, Mr Potter. Once you have told me what I want to know." He flicked his wrist and the collar loosened.

Harry lay on his side, red-faced and coughing. "You can forget it then," he rasped. "You won't ever get any answers from me, _Tom._" He managed to launch a gob of bloody spit towards the Dark Lord's feet.

"Oh, but I will," Voldemort said, his red eyes narrowed to slits. "You see, I know quite a bit about you, Potter. You are resistant to Imperius. Dumbledore has tutored you well in Occlumency. You have exhibited little regard for your own life over the years, but that of others? That is a different matter, is it not?" He gestured to Lucius. "Now is your opportunity to prove yourself, Lucius. Which shall it be. Your life, or that of your son, hmm?"

To his credit, Lucius did not hesitate; if he felt conflicted about what he would be required to do, he hid it well.

He stalked over to his son, drew his well-used, ivory-handled knife, and put the blade to his throat.

Draco gasped, but likely more from pain than anguish. "I'd guessed it would come down to this one day, Father," he whispered.

Lucius merely tightened his grip on his son's hair and jerked back his head. A trickle of blood ran down his throat. "Save your breath, dear child," Lucius said. "You'll likely need it soon. For screaming."

Harry flinched.

"Ah yes, Mr Potter. Now you begin to see," the Dark Lord said. "For each question you fail to answer, someone you hold dear will...suffer."

"Harry, don't listen to him!" Draco gasped. "He's lying. He'll kill me anyway. He'll kill us both. You _know_ that. Don't tell him anything!"

"Tell me about the prophecy, Mr Potter," Voldemort began.

You did not want to watch or to listen as Harry refused repeatedly to answer, Lucius's knife flashed, and Draco screamed.

You wanted to draw your wand, blast Lucius and Voldemort dead. You longed to cast hex after Dark, malevolent hex at your so-called Brothers, weak, sadistic scum who laughed at Draco's pain and Harry's humilation; at Sirius Black for being so disastrously _wrong_ when you most needed him to be right.

But you could not move. Like so many times before, when your children lay splayed upon these same stones, there was nothing to do, no direct action you could take that would make the slightest difference.

So you watched. You met Draco's tormented eyes and willed him strength and peace.

Nonetheless, in the end, his body lay broken, bloodied, though his chest rose and fell weakly.

Tears streamed freely down Harry's cheeks. His voice was raw from cursing and his wrists and ankles and throat bled from where he'd struggled against the chains.

"Tell me Potter, and I will end this. I will call off Lucius and allow your lover," Voldemort's lip curled with disgust, "to live. I will even allow him to go free. Tell me the rest of the prophecy, boy! I know you know it. I know Dumbledore has told you. Tell it to me. I will know if you are lying!"

Lucius stood, and rested one dragon hide boot lightly on his son's throat.

He increased the pressure slightly.

Draco gurgled, whereupon Harry Potter broke.

Something crumbled inside you as well.

"It's simple, really," Harry said hoarsely, head hanging low. "'The Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives.'" Harry took a deep breath then continued. "You see? The power...that was in my blood, that you took, my mother's dying gift. And 'neither can live'? Just means that One of us must die at the hand of the other. Kill me and you live forever."

All at once, that small bit of your mind not fogged by grief came alert. The tears on Harry's face were real, as had been the horror when Lucius sliced his son apart. Draco's despair had not been feigned, nor had his screams.

But you knew, and Harry knew that that you knew that 'the power' was _not in his blood at all._

"All this fuss over a straightforward matter of 'kill or be killed?'" Voldemort was saying, "Absolutely absurd. Go ahead, Lucius. Kill him."

Lucius blinked. "Master?"

"Have you gone deaf? I said, _kill him_! Or shall I give that pleasure to Bellatrix?"

You had not missed the workman-like precision with which Lucius had dealt his sons wounds; Bellatrix would have used far more 'artistry.'

One slash of Lucius's knife, a bright gush of arterial blood, and Draco lay forever still.

"No!" Harry wailed. "You lying bastard! You promised. You promised me! Lucius, I'll see you in hell. I'll see you in hell!"

"Did you really think I'd keep any promise I'd made to you? The blubbering child who killed so many of my followers? Kill or be killed, Harry, remember?" Voldemort smiled nastily. "But first, I think that we'll enjoy ourselves a bit. In memory of those of our slain brethren. What say you all?"

Bellatrix, Macnair, and Dolohov were disgustingly eager. Lucius looked as if he'd thoroughly enjoy making the man who'd seduced and corrupted his son suffer, and suffer again. Wormtail wrung his hands and gibbered incomprehensibly, as usual, "Master, don't believe him! It's a trick! He lies!"

You felt numb to the core.

Black could not have Foreseen this. He could not have allowed this horror to come to pass. He could not have known and yet done nothing to stop it. Even Dumbledore, ruthless, manipulative bastard that he was, could not have, would not have allowed _this!_

What sort of monster had you brought back from beyond the Veil?

Harry's desolate green eyes met yours briefly as he was forced to his belly and his clothing torn away. Lucius leaned in, clipped a leash to the collar then gave it a savage tug. All the while, Voldemort stood behind him, teeth bared like a cobra ready to strike, robes parted to reveal the long pallid hemipenes that hung heavy and erect between his legs.

You wanted to retch up your boot soles, but it would not do to arouse suspicion now, not when the drama had yet to reach its final act.

There might still be time to salvage this mess. Somehow.

So you Occluded your mind, bared your teeth, and shouted in unison with the others: "I say, yea, Master!"

15.

It is quite fortunate for all concerned that Black is the last person you encounter before reaching _Renascence_; He frowns upon Unforgivables cast in the hallways.

At the familiar archway, you do not pause. "Wait here," you tell Zabini and Bulstrode, then step into _Renascence._

The magic of the barrier brushes over your skin like a thousand-fingered caress. You have one moment to savour the sensation before your stomach lurches and you feel as if you've unwittingly triggered a Portkey into the blood-soaked past.

Somehow, you are in _that_ chamber again.

Circular, stone walls. A stained slate floor. Deep underground, dampness and night-terrors seeping through cracks in the mortar.

Your chest is tight, your heart batters itself against your ribs, your vision narrows to a single bright point. You want to run, to draw your wand and call down the power to unmake the world that built such a horror. You want to vomit and collapse in a craven, gibbering heap.

But before your mind comes undone, a wave of pleasure ripples down your spine from the Mark at your nape.

"Severus," He says, smiling. "Come and sit down."

After a few deep breaths, you manage to see past the chamber of what-was to what-is-now.

The scene is so outlandish that you blink twice.

Wizard lights burn cheerfully in sconces on the walls. Three chairs are arranged around a table that has been set for a rather late tea. At one end, there is a tray of finger sandwiches and biscuits. At the other, is a decanter of brandy, a bottle of whisky, and two half-empty glasses.

Lucius occupies one of the comfortable chairs. His chains have vanished, his most obvious hurts have been tended, and he is dressed in well-made and traditional, though rather plain robes of navy wool. He is also wearing a peculiar expression: smug and mildly bemused.

_He_ is dressed casually, as usual, in black Muggle jeans and your birthday gift of a dark green jumper. The sleek knit shapes the breadth of His shoulders and the muscles of His chest and forearms quite delectably. His hair is shaggy, His trainers are worn, and there is a thumbprint on the left lens of His glasses.

You wonder if Lucius realises that it would be a mistake to misinterpret His off-handed manner for laziness or inattention; you fervently hope that he does not.

"Alcohol won't interfere with a restorative--for Lucius--will it?" He asks, rising to greet you. With an approving glance, He makes note of your own attire and smiles, warming you straight through.

You wrinkle your nose. "After all these years, and still the fundamentals of potion-making elude you." From the corner of your eye you notice that Lucius is watching your exchange keenly.

"Can't be good at everything, now can I?" He says with a grin, then surprises you--and stuns Lucius--by leaning in for a kiss. When He pulls back, your body is tingling. "Let's have that restorative, eh? Oh, and have a seat." He gestures to the chair opposite Malfoy. "Lucius and I have been talking."

You pause, hand in the potions case, your fingers closing around a vial; it would be such a simple matter to substitute a slow-acting poison for the restorative. "Have you now?" you say, with the perfect degree of disinterest. You set the proper vial on the table in front of Lucius then take your place at the table. "Might I ask what about?"

"Oh, a number of things really," He says, resuming His own seat with a careless shrug. "Ireland's prospects for the Quidditch World Cup this year. Shacklebolt's latest reforms. Some of the more interesting magical developments here and abroad, your progress on reversing the werewolf's curse, for instance. Hmm, what else..." He taps His chin with one finger. "Let's see, the continuing fall of the Galleon against the pound. Good thing Dean saw that coming and we diversified, isn't it?" He takes up His glass and swirls it a bit. "Oh, and yeah, we also talked about his possible contribution to our work here at the Phoenix Foundation."

The Mark is silent.

Your feigned disinterest evaporates. "Is that so."

Lucius lips quirk in a small smile. "Oh yes, Severus," he replies, hefting his own glass. "Harry was so gracious as to heal my _recently acquired_ injuries," his eyes dare you to comment, "and then we have spent a pleasant few hours enjoying this marvellous Glenmorangie and exchanging ideas about how I could best assist in his research. As you well know, my library and collection of magical artefacts is quite extensive, as is my knowledge and experience of theoretical and practical magic."

Your eyes narrow. 'Harry,' now, is it?

Yet still the Mark is silent. How best to proceed?

The blond bastard is clearly enjoying himself. "It is refreshing to speak to someone who understands that, upon unexpectedly finding ourselves in extraordinary circumstances, we may be forced to take...extreme measures." He raises his glass and takes a sip of his whisky.

"I see." Your voice bears a distinct edge. Malfoy appears to have taken full advantage of his time with Him. "And what did you both decide?"

Seeming to be perfectly at ease, Lucius leans back in his chair. "Harry?"

"Just that Lucius could definitely be of use to us, what with his talents and everything," He says utterly without inflection, though you detect an intriguing whiff of calculation through the Mark; all is quite clearly not as it seems. "I would, of course, require him to satisfy a few conditions." He sets the glass on the table with a distinct _clink._ "'In light of those 'extreme measures' and 'extraodinary circumstances' he mentioned, of course."

"Of course," Lucius echoes, though he avoids meets both His eyes and yours. Regardless, you sense his uncertainty; how unfortunate for him that, mental instability or no, you are still a fine Legilimens. "I am quite prepared," he continues, "to make a very generous donation to--"

"Oh, that won't be necessary." He leans back and waves His hand. "We have more money than we could ever use--a mix of good investing and very generous donations, you know--and our library and archives are quite well-stocked, thanks in large part to Hermione, Sirius, and Severus. Actually, I had something a bit different in mind for you, Lucius."

"Oh?" This appears to be unwelcome news to Malfoy. You can't help but smile to yourself. It's high time he learned that money can't make every problem disappear.

He doesn't reply, rather He calls for the house-elf. "Dobby, I need you!"

There is a flash and a pop then Dobby appears. "Dobby is here!" he says eagerly, then he catches sight of Lucius. Instantly, his ears go flat and his eyes narrow to glowing green slits. "What can Dobby do for the most generous and kind Harry Potter who freed him?" He clearly hopes the answer will be: "Remove Lucius Malfoy from the premises, oh, and do feel free to disembowel him on the way out."

"Could you clear all this away?" He gestures to the remains of the tea. "And bring me the contract so that Mr Malfoy can examine it."

Dobby's enormous ears prick up again and his eyes widen. "The _contract_ contract?"

"Yes, Dobby, _that_ contract."

"As Harry Potter wishes," Dobby says happily. With a snap of his fingers, he disappears the contents of the table. Another snap and a polished wooden box appears in its place.

His next words are nothing less than an overt dare. "Go ahead, Lucius. Take a look. Make sure that everything is in order."

Lucius cannot disguise the fine tremor of his hand as he reaches for the box.

He flips open the lid.

All colour drains from his face.

Inside, lying upon the velvet lining, is a black leather collar and a coiled, matching leash.

The Mark hums with triumph and your heart lurches; He has kept His promise. How could you have ever doubted?

There is no need for an outright battle; the war itself appears to have been already fought, and won, in your absence.

The smile that shapes your lips is as dark and satisfying as it is inevitable. "You might wish to take that restorative now," you say, nudging the vial towards Lucius. "I do believe you may need it shortly."

###

In His suite or yours, you never engage in power games. You give comfort in those rooms. You make love, share companionable silences, play chess, argue about trivia, discuss future plans, and hold one another when the nightmares or the grief becomes overwhelming. There, as in all other parts of the Estate and the greater world beyond, He considers you his equal. _Renascence_ is an entirely different matter.

Here, He is your master and you are His bondsman. You do as He asks and submit to His will without question--although not always without resistance or fear. You grant Him absolute power in this domain. In exchange, He provides you with respect, a world without ambiguity, one that is not fraught with perilous choices, where your needs are important and your trust will never be abused.

Others have mocked or exploited you for your willingness to serve, your desire to be loyal to one man above all others. But He understood. He washed your skin clean of Voldemort's taint, an unprecedented act of power that left you breathless. You had already been freed from Dumbledore's web of half-truths and manipulation, months before, when he was killed by Voldemort. And when you knelt before Him and accepted the Phoenix Mark, He swore to you that He would never give you cause to regret it.

You never have.

Each time you enter _Renascence,_ you never know how the room will be configured; He alters the decor to suit His fancy. Lavishly decorated rooms, lush carpets, rich silk bedding, straight out of the fantasy of a sultan's palace. A simple child's bedroom with a brass bedstead and a light blue counterpane. A thick fur rug laid before a blazing fireplace. A comfortably padded table, sized for your height, with gleaming metal rings and sturdy leather straps.

Likewise, once within, you never know precisely what he will require. You have tucked Him into bed and read children's stories until He fell asleep. You have bathed Him in a claw-footed tub, humming lullabies, though you know He prefers showers. You have knelt before Him, parted His ermine-trimmed robes, and sucked His cock whilst He sat upon a high, golden throne. You have thrashed Him bloody, calling Him a reckless, irresponsible, spoiled brat with a saviour-complex. You have buggered Him raw, all the while choking Him senseless with a leather strap. You have allowed Him to cover your eyes, bind you face down with silk cords and tremble while He painted every square inch of your skin with His tongue and then fucked you thoroughly but forbade you to come.

Strange things, pedestrian things, disturbing things, sexual acts; pleasant, frightening, tedious, exhausting, or exhilarating. But you are never forced to debate their moral implications, to agonise over their potential consequences, or feel the gnawing in your gut that says you've been played for a fool, yet again. And only once, when you received the guiche, did He ever cause you physical pain.

When you arrive, He always states what He wants and then formally asks, "Do you consent, Severus?"

You have never said 'no.' You doubt you ever will.

Without _Renascence,_ your mind would fall to pieces and his will would spiral out of control.

Few others can understand this dynamic of yours. A long standing sexual relationship between males is unusual enough, but this? The press has been predictably salacious with its rumours, and many of His confidants, like Granger, are uncomfortable with its implications. Their golden boy must have no flaws.

Curiously enough, Black understands. Perhaps the once-dead have more insight into the needs of the living than one might expect.

"There are things Harry needs that I could never give him, Severus," he said to you once. "And you would never trust anyone else to give you what you need. You're both good for one another."

You snarled at him to mind his own bloody business, but despite yourself, you felt pleased.

Most of those closest to you, like Millicent and Blaise, are pragmatic. They are indebted to Him and believe that after what transpired during the war, you are both entitled to whatever peace you can find, and to hell with what others might think or say.

Lucius is among those who believe your role to be abhorrent, an abomination. He has always thought you to be flawed in that respect: what true man would ever truly wish to belong to another? What true wizard would ever swear fealty to another and _absolutely mean it?_

Domination is a legitimate act for a wizard of any note. But true submission--especially sexual submission? Absolutely not.

Which makes His 'contract' all the more intriguing.

You watch as Lucius stares at the collar and leash and settle more comfortably in your chair to better enjoy his attempts to disguise his blind panic.

###

Shortly after Dobby departs, Lucius manages to find his tongue. "What is the meaning of this...this 'document'?"

He smiles. "Should be clear enough to someone of your intellectual abilities."

After a pause, Lucius says, "A fine jest, Harry. Very clever," with forced joviality. "For a moment I thought you actually expected me to wear this monstrosity."

Suddenly, it seems as if the lights have dimmed. "Do you see me laughing?" He says quietly. "You will put on the collar, Lucius. Afterwards, I will decide what to do with you."

Lucius stands quickly, barking his shin on the table. The box tips and the contract spills over the table top, awaiting fulfilment. "This is completely absurd."

"Is it?" He says, gracefully uncoiling from his chair. "You bound yourself to a lunatic, Lucius. You raped, killed, and mutilated people in his name. You killed your own son, though I accept that you were a hell of a lot more merciful than Bellatrix would have been. You tortured and killed hundreds of wizards, witches, and Muggles, and you tortured my lovers." His voice has dropped to a deadly near-whisper. "And yet you put up a fuss about a collar and a leash. Bit of a coward, are you?"

Lucius's nostrils flare. "I am no coward."

"No? Well, I remember how you managed to weasel out of Azkaban the first time round. 'It wasn't me, I was under the Imperius Curse the entire time.'" He curls his lip. "That, plus a trunkful of Galleons, and the Ministry was willing to look the other way."

"You have no idea what you're talking about."

He takes a single deliberate step towards Lucius; you enjoy watching him twitch with the need to stay still. "You also seem to forget that I've seen your type of 'courage' first hand. You were too concerned about your own skin to tell Voldemort to piss off, so you killed Draco instead."

Lucius abandons civility in favour of blame. "That mess was of _your_ making, Potter. You dragged him into it. He never should have been there."

"He wouldn't have _had_ to be there if you'd been a proper father in the first place. Instead of filling his head with lies and then tossing him aside like so much garbage when he didn't measure up to your shite expectations."

"You have no idea what it is like to be a parent or a Malfoy, Potter, so do not presume to lecture me!" Lucius shouts. "Once you both were captured, he was dead, regardless. My death would have served no purpose whatsoever."

"No purpose!" He spits. "Having your son's last memory be that of his father defending him, protecting him? No, there's no purpose at all in that. You're just as bad as Wormtail, Malfoy. He sold out my parents because he was scared. Poor ickle Peter. Too piss-scared to do the right thing, too much of a coward to own up to the consequences. You sold out your own son for the same reason in exactly the same way."

"Pettigrew and I were nothing alike!"

"Spare me your wounded sensibilities," He snaps, drawing his wand. He levels it at Lucius's chest. "It's all well and fine when you're the one with the wand or the knife, isn't it Lucius? Then it's good fun to dangle the Muggles upside down and scare the shite out of them. It's grand to round up the children and make their parents watch as you slit their throats. Or to rape the daughters, sons, and wives in front of the fathers and husbands. It's a bonus day if you can do it to a 'blood-traitor,' right? Especially if you've got a group of your chums around to watch it all and chat about it over drinks afterwards." Sparks burst from the tip of His wand and Lucius leaps backwards, stumbling over your potions case. "It's a much different matter when you're on the other end of the wand, isn't it?"

"They were weak. Fools."

"And you're the rich and powerful Lucius Malfoy, yes, that's right," He sneers. "You were caught with your prick up the arse of a Ministry spy in France, extradited, had your wand snapped, and then Shacklebolt delivered you to me: 'Best Wishes for a Happy Holiday Season, Harry,' and all that." His lips curve in a nasty smile and He flicks his wand at the collar and leash on the table. "That is the contract, Malfoy. Take it or leave it. It's all the same to me."

Lucius eyes Him coolly. "In that case, I rather think not."

You can't help but laugh aloud. Lucius startles at the harsh sound, as if he'd forgotten you were here. "Actually, I rather think _yes,_ Lucius," you rasp. "Despite the clean clothing and the whisky and the sweets, you are not a guest here. You are in no position to bargain. Spoils of war and all that, remember?" Lucius's jaw tightens at your phrasing. "I suspect that this is an either-or sort of arrangement. Either accept the collar and leash, or..."

Lucius is neither stupid nor suicidal. Alive he has a chance. Dead, he will be nothing but cold, useless meat. He chooses the time-worn tactic of stalling. "For how long?"

"The collar?" He says, smiling slightly. "For as long as it takes, of course." Then He steps away from the table to consider a bland patch of wall. A wave of His wand and a large fireplace springs up, complete with logs and a roaring fire. He stands silently, back to Lucius, considering the crackling flames.

Still, Lucius dithers.

You cross your legs at the ankle and prop your chin on your fist. "A few short hours ago, Lucius, you told me you would rather die than 'do as I have done.' So, what will it be then? I assure you, either would please me."

"You're enjoying this, aren't you, you bastard."

You show him your teeth. "Am I that obvious?"

Limbs stiff with fury and resignation, he lifts the collar in his hands. A mellow chime sounds as the clasp falls open. "You should have died that night back in that pit, Severus," he says, "and Potter too. You both should have died."

"Perhaps," you say softly. "And very shortly, you may wish that we had."

16.

You swept down the long corridor as if you had every right to be there.

'Always have a plan,' you were wont to tell your apprentices, including the infuriatingly impulsive Harry Potter. 'Never go into a situation blind or without an exit strategy.'

And yet here you were, utterly without a plan, but determined to save his life. Without even the excuse of the debt to James or of your contempt for Voldemort; somehow, you'd come to care for the young whelp. But not enough to prevent his torture and thereby destroy your cover so that you could contact the Order--which was for naught since Voldemort refused to allow anyone to leave the compound--apparently. And exactly how twisted was that?

_Harry can recover from torture,_ a voice at the back of your mind reminded you, _but he can't recover from death._ And Voldemort _would_ order Potter killed, or do it himself, no mistake, just as soon as he'd analysed Potter's recitation of the original prophecy and had conferred with his Divination experts.

Draco was dead! What the hell was Potter on about with that performance? And more importantly, what game was Black playing? He _knew_ you would not leave Potter to die. _What will happen must happen._ Damned bloody Seers and their prophecies. No, Potter would _not_ die, not while it was in your power to prevent. Your mind shied away from considering exactly what that might entail.

Two of your erstwhile brethren were lounging outside the door to his cell.

'Always act swiftly and decisively,' you would tell your apprentices. 'Strike hard, fast, with deadly force. There will be time enough to wrestle with moral and legal quandaries after the fact.'

"Snape," Dolohov said. "What the hell are you doing here."

"_Avada Kedavra,_" you replied.

Crabbe brought up his wand a split second too late. His body thudded to the slates beside Dolohov's.

"_Alohomora,_" you snapped. The cell door swung open and as expected, an alarm began to shrill in the corridor.

Potter lay inside on the stone floor. Naked, shivering, his torn and bruised skin streaked with blood and other fluids.

You crouched beside him. "Potter," you said, slapping his face. "Wake up. You're leaving."

His eyes were glazed from pain and shock. "Sev'rus? Wha--?"

"I said get _up,_ you foolish boy, it's time for you to leave." You pointed your wand at his chest and said, "_Ennervate._"

His body jerked but his limbs remained an uncoordinated tangle. Starvation and torture would do that to a body.

Damn it all!

"Drink this," you said, forcing a vial of a powerful restorative past his lips.

He swallowed, coughed, then blinked at you nearsightedly, but with a bit more awareness than before. "Severus. It _is_ you. Sirius told me you'd come."

"Hush." You propped him upright and dressed him in your winter cloak. "Here, I have your wand." You closed his lax fingers around the slender piece of wood, deliberately not thinking of how you'd obtained it. "And take this." You placed a Galleon in his other hand. "It's a Portkey. It will deposit you just inside the wards at Hogwarts, at the edge of the Forest near Hagrid's hut. It'll be up to you to make your way to the castle. But your arrival should trigger the perimeter alarms. Someone will come to find you." Or so you sincerely hoped.

"But what about you?" he asked, dazedly looking down at the bodies at his bare feet. "Aren't you coming?"

You didn't answer; the anti-Apparation wards were still up and your emergency Portkey was spelled to transport a single person. Instead, you hauled him upright and dragged him out of the cell. You took a step back from him and pointed your wand at the Galleon in his hand. "Don't worry about me, worry about yourself. _Portus Coepi!_"

"Severus, no!" Harry said, but the magic of the Portkey was already snatching him safely away.

You were not so fortunate. There were running footfalls in the corridor. You turned to cast a shielding spell, but two powerful blasts caught you in the side before you could speak. Dazed and paralysed, you lay on the floor and listened as the footsteps came closer. They stopped just before your nose. Three pairs of boots. One distinctly feminine.

"Look, Rudolphus, " she replied with obvious relish. "There's another rat in our Lord's service. Do you think Our Lord would mind if we skinned it?"

One of Lucius's expensive dragon skin boots lashed out and caught you in the ribs. Too bad you couldn't have killed him without raising the alarm back when you'd snatched Harry's wand from his pocket. "Wait your turn, Bellatrix," he said. "Severus and I have a a few matters to discuss."

You heard the crackle of spell-fire, felt a blaze of pain, and then the world went dark.

17.

Within a few short minutes, the heat of the fire has chased away the dampness in the chamber and the perfume from the aromatic hardwoods burning on the grate has dispelled the musty scent of old stone.

With a flick of His wand, the room reshapes itself. The wizard lights vanish. In their places, dozens of lit candles appear, in bronze sconces and on brass and silver candleholders on low tables around the room.

Underfoot, the chilly slates have been covered with lush oriental carpets: _Begamo, Bijar, Kilim, and Khotan._ Tapestries cover the walls. The table and chairs have been replaced by other more exotic furnishings. Squat brass censers on the hearth and bed-table, issuing fragrant smoke. Small tables inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl. An ebony divan covered in red velvet. A low, wide bed of mahogany covered with blue, green, and red linens.

The darkness in the room is now intimate, expectant, rather than oppressive with barely-contained violence. _Renascence_ is no longer a prison. Rather, it is a decadent pleasure chamber fit for a conquering warlord.

Casually, He flicks the wand at Himself and His clothes are transformed. Gone are the jeans, trainers, and the jumper. In their place, He wears a set of traditional wizarding robes in blood-red velvet with gold trim. Curiously, He is barefoot. He wiggles His toes in the soft pile of the carpet.

"What were you expecting, a torture chamber? He smiles at Lucius's disbelieving expression. "Whips? Chains? A rusty drain in the floor to catch the blood and bile?"

Lucius shakes his head. "Quite frankly, yes."

"I suppose you would, seeing how often you inflicted pain on others. You and Macnair." He rubs His chin thoughtfully. "I hear that you fancy yourself quite the artist when it comes to pain. Did you know that, before going into the field, my agents would say, 'Whatever you do, don't let Malfoy or Macnair take you alive.' You wouldn't believe how often they would pester Draco about that. Wondering if you'd taught him any of your tricks."

"I did what I had to do," Lucius murmurs, looking down at the collar in his hands.

"No, you did what you _wanted_ to do, Lucius, and you enjoyed it," He says with a dark smile. "Don't deny it. I saw how hard you were when you slit Draco's throat. I scanned the thoughts of your 'Dark Brethren', His lip curls slightly, "before I killed them. I looked into their memories and saw just how much you loved seeing the skin part beneath your knife and watching the blood well up. How much you loved to hear the screams." He moves away from the hearth and paces a slow circle around Lucius. "Here, _I_ do what I want, Lucius, what_ever_ I want. What does that feel like, to you? Are you scared?"

Lucius looks up, wary and resentful.

"Yes," He says softly, "you are. Scared, that is. You're thinking of all the ways I can cause pain without breaking your skin and spoiling my fine rugs with your blood. You're remembering exactly _how_ I killed Voldemort, how I burst his heart in his chest without even raising my wand. How I burnt his body to ash without speaking a word. You're thinking of how very horrid that death was, how you'd rather yours be quick and painless. And you're wishing that you'd had the courage not to pick up that collar at all."

"Can you blame me?" Lucius says, glaring down at Him. "You're completely insane!"

Surprisingly, He laughs. "Insane? Don't believe everything you read in the Daily Prophet, Lucius. But let me set your mind at ease. This is not about pain, not at all. Just ask Severus." He gestures to you. "Have I ever caused you pain in this room without your consent?"

"No, you have not," you say, feeling the first stirrings of anticipation and...fear.

What does He have in mind for tonight? What is your role to be? Which acts will you be required to perform?

The notion of having an...audience is deeply unnerving; it reminds you a bit too much of the _other_ chamber in the time before.

"You see? Pain is counter-productive. Severus doesn't stay with me because I'll punish him if he doesn't."

"No," Lucius almost sneers. "He stays because he wears your Mark."

You startle at his blunt statement.

Lucius looks rather smug. "Yes, Severus. I know all about that. I suppose my money can still buy a bit of useful intelligence now and then."

"The Phoenix Mark," He says, unfazed. "Yes, Severus is one of only two people now living, besides myself, who wears it. Your son wore the other one. But your intelligence is faulty, Lucius; it is not a brand of ownership. It is a contract, much like that you hold in your hands. Only, it is one with entirely _mutual_ terms. Severus may leave at any time he chooses, for any reason, without fear of reprisal or pursuit." The mere mention of leaving makes your throat ache. "No member of the Phoenix Foundation," He continues, "is ever asked to do anything against his or her will. Certainly not a member of my own family."

Lucius snorts. "You expect me to believe that."

"Believe what you want. It _is_ true. Consent is very important to me." He clasps His hands behind His back and meets Lucius's eyes without blinking.

It would be important, you well know, to a man who had been given virtually no ability to chart His own destiny during His formative years.

"I assure you that everything that transpires tonight," He says, "will be because you have agreed to it."

"Try as you might, Potter, you can't sugar-coat the fact that you intend to punish me for all the so-called crimes you believe I've committed."

"Oh, no, Lucius, no. You don't understand." He is shaking his head. "I have no intention whatsoever of punishing you. I plan to _break_ you." Lucius's hands spasm around the collar. "I plan to remake you entirely. And I promise, you will enjoy every moment of it."

When backed into a corner, a desperate rat will always bare its teeth. Lucius is no exception. "Do you really think you have what it takes to break me, boy?"

Though He says nothing, His smile is dark with promise and absolute certainty. The moment spins out while they stare at one another and eventually, Lucius is forced to look away. Apparently, he still wants to live to see another day.

_His_ smile broadens. "Do you consent to this act, Lucius Malfoy? Do you consent to wear this collar, to do as I bid, for as long as I deem necessary?"

"Submit or die? Not much of an choice, is it?"

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, Lucius," you snap, exasperated. "Stop dithering like a virgin bride. Pick one or the other and put us all out of _your_ misery."

His expression is mutinous and the words seem to stick in his throat, but his reply: "Yes," is audible.

"Then give Severus the collar and kneel while he puts it on you."

A look of horror flashes across his face and then is gone. Stiffly, he hands you the collar then sinks to his knees and glares up at you.

The Mark now radiates satisfaction and expectancy. "Severus," He says. "Do you consent to the breaking of Lucius Malfoy, whatever it might take?"

You look down at the collar. It is infused with so much magic that it thrums in your hand. The candlelight shivers over Lucius's silver hair as he struggles, fists clenched, to remain still. You have knelt before him many times and opened his robes or his trousers and sucked him to completion. Never once did he return the favour. Then, there is also the other, more troublesome history between you. There is only one possible answer to His question.

"Yes. I do," you say, then brush aside Lucius's hair and encircle his neck with the collar.

The chime sounds again, the clasp is sealed, Lucius sways from the backlash of the spell; it is done.

"_Finally,_" He says, striding the few steps to the bed. He stretches out upon it cross-wise and props His head on one hand. The firelight dances over the lenses of His glasses obscuring His eyes. "I was starting to think I'd have to bloody my carpets after all."

"Just get _on_ with it, for Merlin's sake," Lucius says.

_He_ laughs. "So eager? Well then, Severus, let's not keep Mr Malfoy waiting. Go ahead and kiss the man. I want to watch."

Lucius blinks up at you, confused and utterly stunned.

You, however, are not surprised.

_He_ always likes to watch, even when you are in your private suites. He loves to see you pleasure yourself. He'll lie beside you on the bed, hand on His bare cock and watch and whisper while you stroke yourself to completion, or prepare yourself for Him, sliding your fingers in and out, open and vulnerable, lip caught in your teeth, breathless from moaning.

The only difference tonight is that you will be with someone _else,_ and that Lucius will be watching, too; both notions make you shiver.

"It's all right, Severus," He says, correctly reading your hesitance. "I want you to. And it's necessary. You know it is."

_His_ mind brushes against, then through yours and you realise that He is right. One might flay Lucius for days but he will only bend and never truly break. Pain that will not undo him, any more than it undid you. Willing submission, on the other hand...but the horrible memories you must overcome to do so, oh! But you had promised, when He gave you back your sanity, along with a wand, that you would do anything He required. There is also the fact that this particular task will be far from onerous, if you manage to get beyond the events of the past; Lucius is still quite pleasing to your senses.

With a deep breath, you grasp him by the shoulders and force him to his feet. He is only an inch or two taller so it is a simple matter to cup his face in your hands and pull him down for the kiss. You are rewarded by a thrill of pleasure from the Mark.

Lucius resists, twisting his face away. "It will take more than one pathetic kiss from you, Severus, to do anything but make me sick."

"He's still scared," He says, and Lucius tenses even more under your hands, no doubt objecting His choice of words. "So go slow. Seduce him, you know, the way I like. I want him to enjoy it."

Lucius parts his lips to protest, but you steal his words before they have fully formed.

You begin with the very tip of your tongue, running it lightly over his tense lips, again and again. When they remain unresponsive, you shift your fingers to gently cup the nape of his neck then stroke your thumbs over his temples. Patience and persistence, the tip of your tongue, the slight movement of your fingers, a shifting of your body so it presses against his; he relaxes minutely.

Though your eyes are closed, you are touching him and his thoughts are close to the surface. It is a simple matter to lean in and _see_...a blonde-haired woman--Narcissa in her youth--and a more fondly remembered kiss.

Her tongue moved over his lips, teasing, dipping inside, coaxing forth a moan. You follow her path, slipping your tongue between his lips repeatedly until they soften enough that you can slide over his lower teeth and into the whisky-tinged warmth of his mouth...whereupon the image shifts and the woman in his arms is a tall, dark-haired beauty whom you've never met. A courtesan perhaps.

She thrusts her tongue boldly into his mouth, challenging him to respond, thrust for thrust. So you do the same, and feel his arms pull you close. His tongue chases yours back into your own mouth where it flicks against your palate, a sensitive spot, prying loose an inevitable moan...then you are falling, thrust out of his mind and away by the sheer force of his fear, stumbling backwards against the foot of the bed.

"No!" he shouts. "I will not do it!"

"Yes, Lucius," He disagrees patiently. "You _will._ Otherwise..." He flicks a finger and abruptly, Lucius is gasping for breath and clawing at the collar. Red-faced and coughing, he stumbles to one knee. "You think too much, Lucius," He says conversationally, then flicks a finger again, releasing the choke-spell. "You and Severus are two peas in a pod like that. Why not just enjoy what's on offer? You and Severus were lovers once. It's not as if you've never done it before. And I can assure you that he's quite skilled these days."

"That's beside the point," Lucius manages to say between gasps.

"No, that's _exactly_ the point. You consented. You accepted the collar. Now accept the consequences."

'Or else,' hovers in the air, unspoken.

That is your cue. You reach out to give Lucius a hand up. After a moment, and a long deep breath, he takes it.

"Now, try again," He says. "Another kiss. And this time, Lucius..."

"Yes, yes. I know," he says shortly. Then his hands are in your hair, your teeth clack against his, and he is plundering your mouth with his tongue.

But you know that this frenzy is not what He desires, at least not yet.

So you steel yourself against the last recollections you have of his touch. You wrap your arms around your reluctant partner and stroke his shoulders with your fingertips, resisting his haste every so slightly. You force him, bit-by-tortuous-bit, to slow down and savour the brush of moist lips, the slick-slide of your tongues, the heat and sinuous movement of your body against his, and the rustle of brocade against wool.

Though his mind is more guarded now, his defences are weak. It is a simple matter to press inwards lightly and call forth memories of other kisses, other women and men, and other long, decadent nights of pleasure.

"Mmm, yes. Like that, do you?" you whisper in a pause between kisses, taking in his glazed eyes, flushed cheeks, and the long, hard cock pressed against your thigh.

A hot pulse of lust from the Mark brings your own cock in to readiness; it is not so difficult now to forget the flash of his knife, your screams, the darkness, the desperate clawing at the implacable stone lid of the box.

"Not so horrid a fate after all, is it, Lucius, kissing my lover?" He says, then laughs softly.

But you can still read his conflict and confusion in the tenseness of his body against yours. How could a simple kiss possibly be dangerous? How could pleasure be more devastating than pain? And yet, his prick has led him astray before, just a short while ago, in fact, in Paris. But still, he must wonder...

"Again, Severus, again," He whispers. "I want to see more."

Now that you've moved beyond your unpleasant recollections, why would you hesitate? Lucius gave you one of your first kisses, long ago. His talents have improved greatly since then. So you comply, bringing your every skill to bear to banish his confusion and resistance with the sensual delights of touch, teeth, lips, and tongue.

Your fingers graze the skin of his nape, raising goose-flesh. You nibble along the edge of his jaw, rasping your tongue against the silver stubble, and cool the skin with the whisper of your breath; he moans softly.

One of your hands trails lightly down his neck, his shoulder, to clasp his hand and trace circles on his palm. The other you shift upward to bury your fingers in his hair and massage the tender scalp; his breathing quickens.

When you slide your knee between his legs and press rhythmically against the firm ridge of his cock, you sense his resolve wavering; a bit more sensation, a few carefully placed moans and that resolve might crumble entirely.

"Been a while since you had _this,_ hasn't it, Lucius?" You whisper hoarsely against his ear. "A knife or a whip or a timid little virgin is no substitute for a willing partner who knows what's what." When you nuzzle his robe to the side, then feast on the wing of his collarbone, he gasps outright.

"Damn you, Severus," he says, the words half-caught on a moan; you smile against his shoulder.

On the bed, He shifts restlessly upon the bedclothes and undoes the front of his robe. He is naked underneath. Firelight and the sheen of sweat burnishes his leanly muscled chest and legs. "Open his robes, Severus. I want to see him," He says, toying briefly with a pebbled nipple, before shifting his hand down to stroke the length of his erect cock.

You release Lucius's hand and start in on the brushed pewter buttons down his front. He shivers a bit--from lust or fear--as each patch of bare flesh is revealed, until the buttons are completely undone. His open robe slips down his shoulders revealing the well-formed cock that you remember, the defined muscles of his shoulders, chest, his thighs, lightly frosted with silver hair.

"Oh yes, I approve," He says, sliding His foreskin back with a finger and a thumb. The head of His cock glistens with a bead of precome. He stretches lazily, baring one long leg completely. "All those years on the run have done you some good, Lucius. You haven't let yourself go."

You'd have to be completely blind not to notice Lucius's obvious interest in His display.

"I want to watch you suck him, Severus," He says, fisting His own cock lightly. "Kneel down and bring him off. Slowly, make it last."

You might like to resist that order, but the habit of obedience is too strong. You drop to your knees on the carpet then slide your hands up Lucius's narrow ankles and remove his boots and socks. You stroke your way up his calves, fluttering your fingers at the backs of his knees, and continue upwards, you caresses his thighs, his hips, the lean curve of his buttocks. Then you lean in and take that familiar, slightly curved cock into your mouth.

Lucius's moan mingles lushly with His own.

With that warm solid length in your mouth, you can no longer deny your own lust. You can no longer pretend that it is the Mark and the echo of His own lust that has made your stomach tight, your balls ache, and your engorged cock press against your trousers.

Therefore, it is only fair that you make Lucius suffer dearly for it.

You do so with every flick of your tongue, every reciprocal moan, every delicate nibble of his foreskin. You tease his slit with the tip of your tongue. You open your throat and wrap your tongue around his length as you slide down upon his cock. You roll his balls gently in their sac with one hand, and wet two fingers on the other and slide them along his perineum to tease his anus with their tips. You briefly abandon his cock and mouth each of his balls, then slip your fingers inside him and press steadily against the little nub within. You pause, just to torment him, and then you do it all over again.

And it is clear that Lucius is suffering.

His breath comes in gasps, his thighs tremble, his hips thrust and rotate as you suck, his hand, where it fists in your hair, is shaking.

"He's got an amazing mouth, doesn't he, Lucius?" He says.

You open your eyes to see that He has left the bed and is standing behind Lucius now, chin on his shoulder, fingers gently brushing the collar. "I think that every time he sucks me off." His throaty chuckle sends shiver down your spine; you wish it was His cock in your mouth rather than Lucius's. "That tongue, those hands, all just makes you want to come, doesn't it?"

Savagely, you jab his prostate with your fingers and then--with a shout--Lucius _is_ coming, spilling his salty-bitterness down your throat. His knees weaken and he whimpers as you continue to suck and lick his softening prick without mercy.

Before he can fall, He catches him under the armpits and guides him to the bed. "Damned fine, wasn't it, Lucius," He says rhetorically. "Devastating, really." He arranges Lucius on his back, robes spread open around him bed, utterly dishevelled. The candle light gleams on his soft, wet cock.

He shifts to kneel behind Lucius near the headboard and strokes his temples lightly. Then He looks up at you with a sly smile. "But look. Severus is still hard."

And you are, hard and achingly, the jut of your cock disrupting the otherwise smooth fall of your robes now that you've risen from your knees. You want much more than Lucius's bleary, sated stare and His smug grin. If you were in your suite, you'd tell Him to get rid of the attitude, get down on His knees, and start sucking. But here, this is His scene and you abide by His rules.

"I think you should go help him out, Lucius. After all, what's fair is fair."

Lucius, fair? Ha! You speak before thinking. "Why should this time be any different than any of the others?"

_He_ doesn't appear to mind. "That can't possibly be true."

By now, Lucius has recovered some of his wits, but clearly, not all of them, as he honestly replies. "It is, I do not 'suck cock'," he says with disdain.

"Wow." He shakes his head in feigned disbelief. "Hard to believe. I mean, _why,_ for God's sake? But, as they say, there's a first time for everything."

Lucius sits up abruptly, nearly smacking Him in the nose.

"What's the matter, Lucius?" He slides His hands over Lucius's bared shoulders then strokes the collar with the edge of His thumbs. "After everything you've done in the war and afterwards, everything you've survived so far, I can't believe you're too scared to wrap your mouth around a bit of cock."

Lucius says nothing, though he obviously wants to. Already, the post-coital laxness of his muscles is giving way to tension, despite His slow, sensual massage. But you know that _willing submission_ is the key. He cannot be forced, you must make him _want_ to, but how?

_He_ is watching you intently. Suddenly, an image flashes in your mind: Yourself as you are now, as He sees you. Black and silver hair turned to bronze and gold in the firelight. Tall, austere, but with an intensity in your heavily-lidded eyes, a certain cant of your hips that cannot help but imply a smoldering sexual-heat. Your cheeks are flushed, your lips are swollen and bruised, you are clearly aroused; within your mind's eye, your other-self slowly and erotically begins to disrobe. Apparently, He believes a 'show' will be helpful here.

"Watch him, Lucius," He whispers into Malfoy's left ear. "Watch how he moves. I don't doubt you'll change your mind."

You begin simply with your boots and socks, bending slightly to remove them and set them aside. Your buttons are next. Sixteen buttons of polished jet flicked open, one after the other, and your over-robe of indigo brocade is undone. Twelve more of ivory and those of your black under-robe are as well. Ten more of mother-of-pearl and your white shirt falls open to reveal your chest.

Though it seems impossible, as each button slipped through its button-hole, your cock has become harder, so that when you finally unbutton your trousers and allow them to slide to the floor, it is with a moan of relief.

Lucius echoes that moan, and as you watch, his cock begins to fill.

"See what I mean? He's incredible," He says, trailing His fingers down Lucius's chest to tweak his nipple. "All those years in school and I had no idea what he was hiding under all that black. Even now, he doesn't know what he's doing to us. Doesn't realise that all we want are those fingers around our pricks." He coaxes Lucius up on his knees. "Or to spread those thighs and fuck him hard, with those long legs of his wrapped around our hips." He shifts his hand down to stroke Lucius to full hardness. "Or to have our mouths wrapped around that long, magnificent cock."

You allow the robes and shirt to slide down your arms then step forward, out of the trousers, to stand at the foot of the bed.

"Go ahead, Lucius," He urges. "Have a little taste. I know you want to. See if you can suck my lover well enough that he sees stars, that his knees go weak."

Almost as if in a daze, Lucius moves towards you on hands and knees.

He stops mere inches away, and you reach out and gently stroke his cheek. His eyes meet yours and the fear, anguish, and desire--above all else, the _desire_\--you see is enough to steal your breath.

Your mind brushes against his and images flash past, nearly too quickly to follow. A blond boy, naked, kneeling before his father, awaiting punishment. The same boy, several years older, standing in a classroom, trousers opened, and forcing another boy down on his knees. A man, full-grown, kneeling before the Dark Lord, eyes carefully lowered to hide his resentment and rage.

"It doesn't have to be that way, Lucius," you say softly. "Let us show you."

He is wavering, you can tell, between what he wants, what he thinks it means, and what he will think of himself if he does. All he needs is a little push.

"Please," you say, gently cupping his chin in your hand.

And somehow, that is enough. He leans forward and your cock is enveloped in moist heat. His technique is poor. His teeth scrape, he bdoesn't quite know what to do with his tongue, and he gags a few times when you thrust too deeply, but you could not care less.

The Mark is flaring with lust and triumph, He is crouched on the bed wearing a shit-eating grin, and you now have something that you hadn't realised you'd wanted but had resigned yourself to doing without it, nonetheless: Lucius's mouth on your cock.

Then you set aside your thoughts, tangle your fingers in his hair, and let your body do the thinking for you. In just a short while, he discovers how to open his throat so he can take you deep. Then you help him find a combination of lips, and tongue, and rhythm that will eventually culminate in a mind-splattering orgasm.

But you are rudely snatched away from completion when Lucius gasps and pulls back. You open your eyes to discover that He has not been idle. He has pushed aside Lucius's robes to expose his arse and is now finger-fucking him slowly.

"Don't stop," you say, pulling him forward again. "It's okay. You'll like it. I know you will."

And he _does,_ if his moans, the wanton movement of his hips, and the carnal imagery spinning through his mind are any indication. He makes not the slightest further complaint, even when He finally tires of the preparation and then kneels up and pushes into Lucius from behind.

The three of you fall into a sensual, spine-tingling rhythm, then. Lucius pushes back on His cock and moans; He thrusts forward, only to force Lucius's mouth back around your cock. Again and again, the pattern continues, spiralling your lust ever upward, from the base of your spine, through your balls, and finally out the end of your cock in a blaze of ecstasy that transmutes the darkness behind your closed eyes, the ancient rage and resentment locked tight inside your chest, into light.

###

Much later, the bed shifts and He sits up.

"Oh. I guess it's already after midnight," He says softly. He stretches across Lucius, brushes the hair away from your face, and leans in to give you a brief kiss. Then he turns away to fumble for something on the bed-table.

You assume He's reaching for His glasses, but no, when he turns back, there is something else dark and coiled on his palm. His smile is wickedness personified.

Slowly, He lifts Lucius's hair and presses a kiss to the nape of his neck. Then, without further ceremony, He clips the leash to his collar.

Lucius's eyes snap open all at once. The post-coital haze is gone. In its place is a look of abject terror.

"Happy Christmas, Severus," He says with a soft laugh, then tosses the leash over Lucius's bare shoulder and into your waiting hand.

18.

The lengthy Cruciatus you expected. The discipline of Occlumency had taught you to fashion a still, safe place in your mind within which to hide; the pain was sickening, but you survived.

"But I did it for you, my lord," you cried, taking refuge in the truth and simultaneously trying to sow the seeds of doubt. "Potter lied. Your lives are bound. If you kill him, you'll both die!"

If he believed, if he hesitated, that might give Harry more time to reach safety at Hogwarts. Already, Voldemort had traced the destination of the Portkey and Bellatrix and Rudolphus had been dispatched to intercept him.

"Ah, Severus. Your words are less than convincing," Voldemort said. "_Crucio!_"

The serial rapes were no surprise either. They were standard protocol, more or less, for male and female captives: strip the prisoner naked, humiliate him for a while--beat him, piss on him, shit on him, drag him round the room on a leash for a while, make him suck a few cocks--then sodomise him on the cold stones of the dungeon, again and again. Repeat until he begged for mercy.

Public nudity was a still a taboo in the Wizarding World and Muggles were none too fond of it either; buggery was considered shameful and emasculating; and without a wand a witch was naught but a woman to be put forcibly in her place. Most captives broke long before they'd lost consciousness.

Much to Voldemort's displeasure, like Harry, you refused to beg.

You'd been raped before--Death Eaters were no more, or less, sadistic than either Aurors or power-mad Prefects--and you knew that mercy would not be forthcoming. Your acts--murdering Dolohov and Crabbe, freeing Harry--were unforgivable. Your only real hope lay in doling out your worthless secrets as slowly as possible, to give Harry more time and to better confound Voldemort's plans.

"Well, that was a complete waste of time," Macnair said with disgust. He hitched up his trousers then kicked you in the ribs Lucius had already cracked. "Should have known that fucking a filthy robe-lifter wouldn't get him to talk. He probably even enjoyed it, the sick bastard. Had a nice tight arsehole though. For a while, at least."

Then Lucius took his turn.

You screamed and screamed and screamed when he peeled off your skin, layer by layer--epidermis, dermis, the gobs of fatty tissue below--in finger-width strips. He wielded his knife like an artist.

"Tell me, Severus, tell me what I want to know and I will have Lucius stop. I will give you a sip of water."

Even to your own ears your laughter sounded demented. "Piss off, Tom."

The knife would flash, you would scream again.

And so it went.

The hours and days oozed past in a kaleidoscope of pain, sickness, burning fever, thirst, blood, and pain.

They doused you with Veritaserum. When lucid, you resisted, you told wild truths or screamed when you were not. They cursed you with malevolent hexes, they broke then healed and then broke your bones again. But you remembered Lupin, and Pettigrew, and you _would not yield_ like those spineless Gryffindors.

Eventually, Voldemort grew tired of your resistance. "You know him best, Lucius. Make him talk. I don't care how. But I want what he knows."

Lucius did his best. You crawled for him, bathed his feet with your cracked tongue, you called him 'master' and called him 'god,' you told him everything except what he most wanted to know.

He grew frustrated as well.

Some unknown time later, you were bound, hand and foot, and then placed inside a stone box in a tiny oubliette below the wine cellars. The icy slab burned your bare skin worse than the flame hexes and the red hot pokers.

"You know something, Severus," Lucius leaned over the edge of the coffin and whispered into your ear. "I actually don't give a bloody damn what you know. There is only one way that Draco would have turned his back on his family--on _me_\--and that is if _you_ seduced him. You, a man I once thought of as a younger brother. You killed my son, Severus Snape, and for that, you don't deserve an easy death."

He moved back and raised his wand. The heavy stone lid began to slide.

Your voice had failed days before and so, you could only stare in horror as stone ground against stone and the light grew dim.

Finally, the lid grated shut over your tomb leaving you alone in silence and darkness, and host to a storm of emotions infinitely beyond either horror or despair.

19.

_Renascence,_ now, is almost as it had been when you first entered, hours ago.

A round stone room, stained floor, two straight-backed wooden chairs but instead of a tea table, a sturdy trestle table stands in its place. A pot of tea and two cups sit on a tray at its centre.

Lucius sits silently, staring with hollow, haunted eyes at the surface of the table. He is dressed again in his plain navy blue robes. Every so often, he strokes the collar at his throat with the tips of his fingers. His cup of tea is untouched.

"What happened to us, Severus?" he says so softly you strain to hear. "How did it all go so wrong?"

You expected to feel triumphant in this moment. To see Lucius shattered, stripped down to his core. Brought low by passion rather than pain. Instead, you feel empty.

You remember a striking young man, a Prefect, who spoke gently to a 'lowly' First Year. You remember the mustiness and crinkle of the age-yellowed pages of the magical books he'd given you. You recall your first kiss. Those memories bring you pleasure, even if the gestures weren't free of plots or entanglements. "We each believed their lies," you say simply.

"I never believed--" Lucius begins, seeming stung, but then he subsides. "Well, I suppose that I did."

You nod. "You've never accepted that, Lucius. You've never been honest with yourself. Our motives might have been different, but we both wanted to believe that Voldemort would give us the world, the world we wanted to have."

"And Potter never lies to you?"

You shrug. "He hasn't yet."

"He gives you what you need. You've found what you were looking for, then." Lucius sounds exhausted, defeated.

You think of your light-filled suite; your lab and your research; your assistants and friends; the grinning, noisy children who are never deterred by your snarls and grumbles since you carry sweets in your pockets to spoil their dinner; your powerful, unstable lover with His quick-silver moods who is always patient and gentle with you and gives you whatever you need. "In a roundabout fashion, yes, I have." You think upon the leash that is coiled up in your pocket and say, "You could have that, too, Lucius."

He shakes his head. "I wished you dead, Severus. I tortured you and enjoyed it. I wanted to break you."

"I know that," you say quietly. "And you _did_ break me."

The end of the war arrived while you lay nearly senseless in hospital. Black-as-dog had sniffed you out and he and Kingsley had pulled you from the tomb and taken you to St. Mungo's. Your hands and feet were still bandaged; you'd pulped them against the stone lid of the sarcophagus trying to escaped. You could not speak; your vocal cords were permanently scarred. You could not bear the darkness, your eyes could not bear the light, you could not suffer a single touch without shrieking soundlessly, the overworked staff had no idea what to do with you.

You lay staring at the ceiling as the war raged outside and remembered one pale face framed with silver hair, looking down at you before the light disappeared. You remembered one name, one emotion, and shaped the syllables over and over again.

"I wished you dead as well, and worse, Lucius. I wished for you to be as I was: a broken man."

"No, Severus, you're not broken," he says, shaking his head. "I look at you and I see power, success. You are well-known. Your skills are widely regarded. Your endorsement alone can launch a career. Your patronage can elevate the lowly. Yet here I am, after all that I've done or tried to do, with nothing. I am a 'thing' for Potter to dispose of at will."

You consider that for a long moment. "Would it truly be so terrible, Lucius? To belong to me and live?"

He stares down at his tea and says nothing.

As the silence wears on, you nod to yourself. Perhaps for a man like Lucius, it would be. Slavery, of a sort. A fate worse than death.

You stand, place your potions case on the table, and extract a single vial. "This is a fast-acting poison. Two drops in your tea and you will never awaken."

That gets a reaction. "So those are my choices: submission to your will or death?"

"No, Lucius. You have already willingly submitted to both Harry and me. Your choice is to _continue to submit,_ or die."

He says nothing.

"I cannot allow you to leave here, Lucius, not and walk free. My equanimity regarding our...history only stretches so far. There is nowhere for you to go in any case. Shacklebolt would be delighted to have you rot in Azkaban or simply 'disappear,' after his Aurors have a bit of fun with you, of course. This room is magically sealed, and the corridors are filled with people who would like nothing more than to see you dead. Even with my protection, you might not live out the week here at Taynton Hall."

"Well then," he sighs. "I suppose I should be grateful."

"Yes, you should."

He toys with the teacup. "But it is not in my nature to be grateful."

"Nor to submit. I know."

You rise and walk to the archway. When you look back over your shoulder. Lucius has not moved. The vial is still in its place.

You wonder what you will find when you return.

You wonder what you hope to find.

Finis.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the 2004 Merry Smutmas gift exchange for Gwendolen. Many thanks Gina for having organized the fest (and put up with my RL drama), to my wonderful beta, Brit-picker, and story consultant, Luthien for work above and beyond, and finally to Josan for catching a bunch of things I missed. All remaining mistakes (and I'm sure there are some) are my fault alone.


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